REIKELEY 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 


I 


4 


Back  to  Methuselah.  A 
Metabiological  Penta- 
teuch. By  Bernard  Shaw 


BRENT ANO'S  -    New  York 
MCMXXI 


COPYRIGHT,    1921,    BT 
lEOROE    BERKARD    8  II  AW 


All  rights  reserved 


First  Printing,  May,  1921 

Second  Printing,  June,  1921 

Third  Printing,  July,  1921 

Fourth  Printing,  August,  1921 


Printed  in   U.  S.  A. 


12! 


CONTENTS 


Tht  Infldel  Half  Century       .       .       .       .       , 
The  Dawn  of  Darwinism    ..... 
The  Advent  of  the  Neo-Darwinians 
Political  Inadequacy  of  the  Human  Animal 
Cowardice  of  the  Irreligious 
Is  there  any  Hope  in  Education? 
Homeopathic  Education             ....  xiii 
The  Diabolical  Efficiency  of  Technical  Education    xv 
Flimsiness  of  Civilization 
Creative  Evolution              .... 
Voluntiary   Longevity        .... 
The  Early  Evolutionists 
The  Advent  of  the  Neo-Lamarckians 
How  Acquirements  are  Inherited 
The  Miracle  of  Condensed  Recapitulation 
Heredity  an  Old  Story       .... 
Discovery  Anticipated  by  Divination 
Corrected  Dates  for  the  Discovery  of  Evolution  xxxiv 
Defying  the  Lightning:  a  Frustrated  Ex- 
periment             

In  Quest  of  the  First  Cause 

Paley's  Watch 

The  Irresistible  Cry  of  Order,  Order ! 
The  Moment  and  the  Man 
The  Brink  of  the  Bottomless  Pit      . 
Why  Darwin  Converted  the  Crowd 
How  We  Rushed  Down  a  Steep  Place 
Darwinism  not  Finally  Refutable 


vu 
vii 


IX 


xu 


xvu 

xvii 

xviii 

XX 

xxiii 
xxiv 
xxvi 
xxxi 
xxxii 


vi  Back  to  Methuselah 

Three  Blind  Mice Iv 

The  Greatest  of  These  is  Self -Control            .  lix 

A  Sample  of  Lamarcko-Shavian  Invective.  Ix 

The  Humanitarians  and  the  Problem  of  Evil.  Ixii 
How  One  Touch  of  Darwin  Makes  the  Whole 

World  Kin Ixiv 

Why  Darwin  Pleased  the  Socialists         .        .  Ixv 

Darwin  and  Karl  Marx Ixviii 

Why  Darwin  Pleased  the  Profiteers  also        .  Ixix 

The  Poetry  and  Purity  of  Materialism          .  Ixxi 

The  Viceroys  of  the  King  of  Kings          .        .  Ixxiii 

Political  Opportunism  in  Excelsis            .        ,  Ixxv 

The  Betrayal  of  Western  Civilization.           .  Ixxvii 

Circumstancial  Selection  in  Finance        .        .  Ixxix 
The  Homeopathic  Reaction  against  Darwinism     Ixxx 

Religion  and  Romance Ixxxiii 

The  Danger  of  Reaction             ....  Ixxxv 

A  Touchstone  for  Dogma        ....  Ixxxvi 

What  to  do  with  the  Legends          .        .        .  Ixxxviii 

A  Lesson  from  Science  to  the  Churches         .  Ixxxix 

The  Religious  Art  of  the  Twentieth  Century  xc 

The   Artist-Ptophets xcii 

Evolution  in  the  Theatre            ....  xciv 

My  Own  Part  in  the  Matter     ....  xcviii 


PREFACE 

THE  INFIDEL  HALF  CENTURY 

The  Dawn  of  Darwinism 

One  day  early  in  the  eighteen  hundred  and  sixties,  I, 
being  then  a  small  boy,  was  with  my  nurse,  buying 
something  in  the  shop  of  a  petty  newsagent,  bookseller, 
and  stationer  in  Camden  Street,  Dublin,  when  there 
entered  an  elderly  man,  weighty  and  solemn,  who  ad- 
vanced to  the  counter,  and  said  pompously,  "Have  you 
the  works  of  the  celebrated  Buffoon?" 

My  own  works  were  at  that  time  unwritten,  or  it  is 
possible  that  the  shop  assistant  might  have  misunder- 
stood me  so  far  as  to  produce  a  copy  of  Man  and 
Superman.  As  it  was,  she  knew  quite  well  what  he 
wanted;  for  this  was  before  the  Education  Act  of  1870 
had  produced  shop  assistants  who  know  how  to  read  and 
know  nothing  else.  The  celebrated  Buffoon  was  not  a 
humorist,  but  the  famous  naturalist  Buff  on.  Every 
literate  child  at  that  time  knew  Buffon's  Natural  His- 
tory as  well  as  Esop's  Fables.  And  no  living  child  had 
heard  the  name  that  has  since  obliterated  Buffon's  in  the 
popular  consciousness :  the  name  of  Darwin. 

Ten  years  elapsed.  The  celebrated  Buffoon  was  for- 
gotten ;  I  had  doubled  my  years  and  my  length ;  and  I 
had  discarded  the  religion  of  my  forefathers.  One  day 
the  richest  and  consequently  most  dogmatic  of  my  uncles 
came  into  a  restaurant  wbere  I  was  dining,  and  found 
himself,  much  against  his  will,  in  conversation  with  the 
most  questionable  of  his  nephews.     By  way  of  making 


viii  Back  to  Methuselah 

myself  agreeable,  I  spoke  of  modem  thought  and 
Darwin.  He  said,  "Oh,  thats  the  fellow  w'ho  wants  to 
make  out  that  we  all  have  tails  like  monkeys,"  I  tried 
to  explain  that  what  Darwin  had  insisted  on  in  this  con- 
nection was  that  some  monkeys  have  no  tails.  But  my 
uncle  was  as  impervious  to  what  Darwin  really  said  as 
any  Neo-Darwinian  nowadays.  He  died  impenitent,  and 
did  not  mention  me  in  his  will. 

Twenty  years  elapsed.  If  my  uncle  had  been  alive,  he 
would  have  known  all  about  Darwin,  and  known  it  all 
wrong.  In  spite  of  the  efforts  of  Grant  Allen  to  set  him 
right,  he  would  have  accepted  Darwin  as  the  discoverer 
of  the  Evolution,  or  Heredity,  and  of  modification  of 
species  by  Selection.  For  the  pre-Darwinian  age  had 
come  to  be  regarded  as  a  Dark  Age  in  which  men  still 
believed  that  the  book  of  Genesis  was  a  standard  scientific 
treatise,  and  that  the  only  additions  to  it  were  Galileo's 
demonstration  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci's  simple  remark 
that  the  earth  is  a  moon  of  the  sun,  Newton's  theory  of 
gravitation.  Sir  Humphry  Davy's  invention  of  the 
safety-lamp,  the  discovery  of  electricity,  the  application 
of  steam  to  industrial  purposes,  and  the  penny  post.  It 
was  just  the  same  in  other  subjects.  Thus  Nietzsche,  by 
the  two  or  three  who  had  come  across  his  writings,  was 
supposed  to  have  been  the  first  man  to  whom  it  occurred 
that  mere  morality  and  legality  and  urbanity  lead 
nowhere,  as  if  Bunyan  had  never  written  Badman. 
Schopenhauer  was  credited  with  inventing  the  distinction 
between  the  Covenant  of  Grace  and  the  Covenant  of 
Works  which  troubled  Cromwell  on  his  deathbed.  People 
talked  as  if  there  had  been  no  dramatic  or  descriptive 
music  before  Wagner ;  no  impressionist  painting  before 
"WTiistler;  whilst  as  to  myself,  I  was  finding  that  the 
surest  way  to  produce  an  effect  of  daring  innovation  and 
originality  was  to  revive  the  ancient  attraction  of  long 


Back  to  Methuselah  ix 

rhetorical  speeches;  to  stick  closely  to  the  methods  of 
Moliere ;  and  to  lift  characters  bodily  out  of  the  pages 
of  Charles  Dickens, 


The  Advent  of  the  Neo-Darwinians 

This  particular  sort  of  ignorance  does  not  always  or 
often  matter.  But  in  Darwin's  case  it  did  matter.  If 
Darwin  had  really  led  the  world  at  one  bound  from  the 
book  of  Genesis  to  Heredity,  to  Modification  of  Species 
by  Selection,  and  to  Evolution,  he  would  have  been  a 
Philosopher  and  a  prophet  as  well  as  an  eminent  pro- 
fessional naturalist,  with  geology  as  a  hobby.  The 
delusion  that  he  had  actually  achieved  this  feat  did  no 
harm  at  first,  because  if  people's  views  are  sound,  about 
evolution  or  anything  else,  it  does  not  make  two  straws 
difference  whether  they  call  the  revealer  of  their  views 
Tom  or  Dick.  But  later  on  such  apparently  negligible 
errors  have  awkward  consequences.  Darwin  was  given 
an  imposing  reputation  as  not  only  an  Evolutionist,  but 
as  the  Evolutionist,  with  the  immense  majority  who  never 
read  his  books.  The  few  who  never  read  any  others 
were  led  by  them  to  concentrate  exclusively  on  Circum- 
stantial Selection  as  the  explanation  of  all  the  trans- 
formations and  adaptations  which  were  the  evidence  for 
Evolution.  And  they  presently  found  themselves  so  cut 
off  by  this  specialization  from  the  majority  who  knew 
Darwin  only  by  his  spurious  reputation,  that  they  were 
obliged  to  distinguish  themselves,  not  as  Darwinians,  but 
as  Neo-Darwinians. 

Before  ten  more  years  had  elapsed,  the  Neo-Dar- 
winians were  practically  running  current  Science.  It 
was  1906;  I  was  fifty;  I  had  published  my  own  view  of 
evolution  in  a  play  called  Man  and  Superman;  and  I 
found  that  most  people  were  unable  to  understand  how 


M 


X  Back  to  Methuselah 

I  could  be  an  Evolutionist  and  not  a  Neo-Darwinian,  or 
why  I  habitually  derided  Neo-Darwinism  as  a  ghastly 
idiocy,  and  would  fall  on  its  professors  slaughterously  in 
public  discussions.  It  was  in  the  hope  of  making  me 
clear  the  matter  up  that  the  Fabian  Society,  which  was 
then  organizing  a  series  of  lectures  on  Prophets  of  the 
Nineteenth  Century,  asked  me  to  deliver  a  lecture  on  the 
prophet  Darwin,  I  did  so;  and  scraps  of  that  lecture, 
which  was  never  published,  variegate  these  pages. 

Political  Inadequacy  of  the  Human  Animal 

Ten  more  years  elapsed.  Neo-Darwinism  in  politics 
had  produced  a  European  catastrophe  of  a  magnitude 
so  appalling,  and  a  scope  so  unpredictable,  that  as  I 
write  these  lines  in  1920,  it  is  still  far  from  certain 
whether  our  civilization  will  survive  it.  The  circum- 
stances of  this  catastrophe,  the  boyish  cinema-fed 
romanticism  which  made  it  possible  to  impose  it  on  the 
people  as  a  crusade,  and  especially  the  ignorance  and 
errors  of  the  victors  of  Western  Europe  when  its  violent 
phase  had  passed  and  the  time  for  reconstruction 
arrived,  cpnfirmed  a  doubt  which  had  grown  steadily  in 
my  mind  during  my  forty  years'  public  work  as  a 
Socialist :  namely,  ighetber^-the^uman   animal,  AS-^he 

exists  -aJ:...„pxesettty-4s«-^iiap,aM^j6llL^i^^  social 

problems  raised  by  his  own  aggr€gation^-oj;,„AauiiIc^3 
it,  his  civilization. 

Cowardice  of  the  Irreligious 

Another  observation  I  had  made  was  that  good- 
natured  unambitious  men  are  cowards  when  they  have  no 
religion.  They  are  dominated  and  exploited  not  only 
by  greedy  and  often  half-witted  and  half-alive  weak- 
lings who  will  do  anything  for  cigars,  champagne,  motor 


Back  to  Methuselah  xi 

cars,  and  the  more  childish  and  selfish  uses  of  money,  but 
by  able  and  sound  administrators  who  can  do  nothing 
else  with  them  than  dominate  and  exploit  them.  Govern- 
ment and  exploitation  become  synonymous  under  such 
circumstances;  and  the  world  is  finally  ruled  by  the 
childis'h,  the  brigands,  and  the  blackguards.  Those  who 
refuse  to  stand  in  with  them  are  persecuted  and  occa- 
sionally executed  When  they  give  any  trouble  to  the 
exploiters.  They  fall  into  poverty  when  they  lack 
lucrative  specific  talents.  At  the  present  moment  one 
half  of  Europe,  having  knocked  the  other  half  down,  is 
trying  to  kick  it  to  death,  and  may  succeed:  a  pro- 
cedure which  is,  logically,  sound  Neo-Darwinism.  And 
the  good-natured  majority  are  looking  on  in  helpless 
horror,  or  allowing  themselves  to  be  persuaded  by  the 
newspapers  of  their  exploiters  that  the  kicking  is  not 
only  a  sound  commercial  investment,  but  an  act  of  divine 
justice  of  which  they  are  the  ardent  instruments. 

But  if  Man  is  really  incapable  of  organizing  a  big 
civilization,  and  cannot  organize  even  a  village  or  a  tribe 
any  too  well,  what  is  the  use  of  giving  him  a  religion.'* 
A  religion  may  make  him  hunger  and  thirst  for  right- 
eousness; but  will  it  endow  him  with  the  practical 
capacity  to  satisfy  that  appetite?  Good  intentions  do 
not  carry  with  them  a  gi'ain  of  political  science,  which 
is  a  very  complicated  one.  The  most  devoted  and  inde- 
fatigable, the  most  able  and  disinterested  students  of  this 
science  in  England,  as  far  as  I  know,  are  my  frl^^nds 
Sidney  and  Beatrice  Webb.  It  has  taken  them  forty 
years  of  preliminary  work,  in  the  course  of  which  they 
have  published  several  treatises  comparable  to  Adam 
Smith's  Wealth  of  Nations,  to  formulate  a  political  con- 
struction adequate  to  existing  needs.  If  this  is  the 
measure  of  what  can  be  done  in  a  lifetime  by  extraordi- 
nary ability,  keen  natural  aptitude,  exceptional  oppor- 


xii  Back  to  Methuselah 

tunities,  and  freedom  from  the  preoccupations  of  bread- 
winning,  what  are  we  to  expect  from  the  parliament  man 
to  whom  political  science  is  as  remote  and  distasteful  as 
the  differential  calculus,  and  to  whom  such  an  elementary 
but  vital  point  as  the  law  of  economic  rent  is  a  'pons 
asinorum  never  to  be  approached,  much  less  crossed?  Or 
from  the  common  voter  who  is  mostly  so  hard  at  work  all 
day  earning  a  living  that  he  cannot  keep  awake  for  five 
minutes  over  a  book  ? 


Is  There  Aiiy  Hope  in  Education? 

The  usual  answer  is  that  we  must  educate  our  masters : 
that  is,  ourselves.  We  must  teach  citizenship  and 
political  science  at  school.  But  must  we?  There  is  no 
must  about  it,  the  hard  fact  being  that  we  must  not 
teach  political  science  or  citizenship  at  school.  The 
schoolmaster  who  attempted  it  would  soon  find  himself 
penniless  in  the  streets  without  pupils,  if  not  in  the  dock 
pleading  to  a  pompously  worded  indictment  for  sedition 
against  the  exploiters.  Our  schools  teach  the  morality 
of  feudalism  corrupted  b}^  commercialism,  and  hold  up 
the  military  conqueror,  the  robber  baron,  and  the 
profiteer,  as  models  of  the  illustrious  and  the  successful. 
In  vain  do  the  prophets  who  see  through  this  imposture 
preach  and  teach  a  better  gospel :  the  individuals  whom 
they  convert  are  doomed  to  pass  away  in  a  few  years; 
and  the  new  generations  are  dragged  back  in  the  schools 
to  the  morality  of  the  fifteenth  century,  and  think  them- 
selves Liberal  when  they  are  defending  the  ideas  of 
Henry  VII,  and  gentlemanly  when  they  are  opposing  to 
them  the  ideas  of  Richard  III.  Thus  the  educated  man 
is  a  greater  nuisance  than  the  uneducated  one:  indeed 
it  is  the  inefficiency  and  sham  of  the  educational  side  of 
our  schools  (to  which,  except  under  compulsion,  children 


Back  to  Methuselah  xiii 

would  not  be  sent  by  their  parents  at  all  if  they  did  not 
act  as  prisons  in  which  the  immature  are  kept  from 
worrying  the  mature)  that  save  us  from  being  dashed 
on  the  rocks  of  false  doctrine  instead  of  drifting  down 
the  midstream  of  mere  ignorance.  There  is  no  way  out 
through  the  schoolmaster. 

Homeopathic  Education 
In  truth,  mankind  cannot  be  saved  from  without,  by 
schoolmasters  or  any  other  sort  of  masters:  it  can  only 
be  lamed  and  enslaved  by  them.  It  is  said  that  if  you 
wash  a  cat  it  will  never  again  wash  itself.  This  may  or 
may  not  be  true:  what  is  certain  is  that  if  you  teach  a 
man  anything  he  will  never  learn  it ;  and  if  you  cure  him 
of  a  disease  he  will  be  unable  to  cure  himself  the  next 
time  it  attacks  him.  Therefore,  if  you  want  to  see  a  cat 
clean,  you  throw  a  bucket  of  mud  over  it,  when  it  will 
immediately  take  extraordinary  pains  to  lick  the  mud 
off,  and  finally  be  cleaner  than  it  was  before.  In  the 
same  way  doctors  w^ho  are  up-to-date  (say  .00005  per 
cent  of  all  the  registered  practitioners,  and  20  per  cent 
of  the  unregistered  ones),  when  they  want  to  rid  you  of 
a  disease  or  a  symptom,  inoculate  you  with  that  disease 
or  give  you  a  drug  that  produces  that  symptom,  in  order 
to  provoke  you  to  resist  it  as  the  mud  provokes  the  cat 
to  wash  itself. 

Now  an  acute  person  will  at  once  ask  why,  if  this  be  so, 
our  false  education  does  not  provoke  our  scholars  to  find 
out  the  truth.  The  answer  is  partly  that  it  does. 
Voltaire  was  a  pupil  of  the  Jesuits ;  Samuel  Butler  was 
the  pupil  of  a  hopelessly  conventional  and  erroneous 
country  parson.  But  then  Voltaire  was  Voltaire,  and 
Butler  was  Butler:  that  is,  their  minds  were  so  ab- 
normally strong  that  they  could  throw  off  the  doses  of 
poison  that  paralyse  ordinary  minds.    When  the  doctors 


xiv  Back  to  Methuselah 

inoculate  you  and  the  homeopathists  dose  you,  they  give 
you  an  infinitesiraally  attenuated  dose.  If  they  gave  you 
the  virus  at  full  strength  it  would  overcome  your  resist- 
ance and  produce  its  direct  effect.  The  doses  of  false 
doctrine  given  at  public  schools  and  universities  are  so 
big  that  they  overwhelm  the  resistance  that  a  tiny  dose 
would  provoke.  The  normal  student  is  corrupted  beyond 
redemption,  and  will  drive  the  genius  who  resists  out  of 
the  country  if  he  can.  Byron  and  Shelley  had  to  fly  to 
Italy,  whilst  Castlereagh  and  Eldon  ruled  the  roost  at 
home.  Rousseau  was  hunted  from  frontier  to  frontier; 
Karl  Marx  starved  in  exile  in  a  Soho  lodging;  Ruskin's 
articles  were  refused  by  the  magazines  (he  was  too  rich 
to  be  otherwise  persecuted)  ;  whilst  mindless  forgotten 
nonentities  governed  the  land ;  sent  men  to  the  prison  or 
the  gallows  for  blasphemy  and  sedition  (meaning  the 
truth  about  Church  and  State)  ;  and  sedulously  stored 
up  the  social  disease  and  corruption  which  explode  from 
time  to  time  in  gigantic  boils  that  have  to  be  lanced  by 
a  million  bayonets.  This  is  the  result  of  allopathic  edu-. 
cation.  Homeopathic  education  has  not  yet  been 
officially  tried,  and  would  obviously  be  a  delicate  matter 
if  it  were.  A  body  of  schoolmasters  inciting  their  pupils 
to  infinitesimal  peccadilloes  with  the  object  of  provoking 
them  to  exclaim,  "Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan,"  or  telling 
them  white  lies  about  history  for  the  sake  of  being  con- 
tradicted, insulted,  and  refuted,  would  certainly  do  less 
harm  than  our  present  educational  allopaths  do;  but 
then  nobody  will  advocate  homeopathic  education.  Allo- 
pathy has  produced  the  poisonous  illusion  that  it 
enlightens  instead  of  darkening.  The  suggestion  may, 
however,  explain  why,  whilst  most  people's  minds  suc- 
cumb to  inculcation  and  environment,  a  few  react  vigor- 
ously: honest  and  decent  people  coming  from  thievish 
slums,  and  sceptics  and  realists  from  country  parsonages. 


Back  to  Methuselah  xv 

The  Diabolical  Efficiency  of  Technical 
Education 

But  meanwhile — and  here  comes  the  horror  of  it — our 
technical  instruction  is  honest  and  efficient.  The  puhiic 
schoolboy  who  is  carefully  blinded,  duped,  and  corrupted 
as  to  the  nature  of  a  society  based  on  profiteering,  and 
is  taught  to  honor  parisitic  idleness  and  luxury,  learns 
to  shoot  and  ride  and  keep  fit  with  all  the  assistance  and 
guidance  that  can  be  procured  for  him  by  the  most 
anxiously  sincere  desire  that  he  may  do  these  things 
well,  and  if  possible  superlatively  well.  In  the  army  he 
learns  to  fly ;  to  drop  bombs ;  to  use  machine-guns  to  the 
utmost  of  his  capacity.  The  discovery  of  high  ex- 
plosives is  rewarded  and  dignified:  instruction  in  the 
manufacture  of  the  weapons,  battleships,  submarines, 
and  land  batteries  by  which  they  are  applied  destruc- 
tively, is  quite  genuine:  the  instructors  know  their 
business,  and  really  mean  the  learners  to  succeed.  The 
result  is  that  powers  of  destruction  that  could  hardly 
without  uneasiness  be  entrusted  to  infinite  ^^isdom  and 
infinite  benevolence  are  placed  in  the  hands  of  romantic 
schoolboy  patriots  who,  however  generous  by  nature,  are 
by  education  ignoramuses,  dupes,  snobs,  and  sportsmen 
to  whom  fighting  is  a  religion  and  killing  an  accomplish- 
ment^ whilst  political  power,  useless  under  such  circum- 
stances except  to  militarist  imperialists  in  chronic  terror 
of  invasion  and  subjugation,  pompous  tufthunting  fools, 
commercial  adventurers  to  whom  the  organization  by  the 
nation  of  its  own  industrial  services  would  mean  check- 
mate, financial  parasites  on  the  money  market,  and 
merely  stupid  conservators  of  everything  that  exists 
merely  because  they  are  used  to  it,  is  obtained  by 
heredity,  by  simple  purchase,  by  keeping  newspapers 
and  pretending  that  they  are  organs  of  public  opinion, 


xvi  Back  to  Methuselah 

by  the  wiles  of  seductive  women,  and  by  prostituting 
ambitious  talent  to  the  service  of  the  profiteers,  who  call 
the  tune  because,  having  secured  all  the  spare  plunder, 
they  alone  can  afford  to  pay  the  piper.  Neither  the 
rulers  nor  the  ruled  understand  high  politics.  They  do 
not  even  know  that  there  is  such  a  branch  of  knowledge 
as  political  science;  but  between  them  they  can  coerce 
and  enslave  with  the  deadliest  efficiency,  even  to  the 
wiping  out  of  civilization,  because  their  education  as 
slayers  has  been  honestly  and  thoroughly  carried  out. 
Essentially  the  rulers  are  all  defectives;  and  there  is 
nothing  worse  than  government  by  defectives  who  wield 
irresistible  powers  of  physical  coercion.  The  common- 
place sound  people  submit,  and  compel  the  rest  to  sub- 
mit, because  they  have  been  taught  to  do  so  as  an  article 
of  religion  and  a  point  of  honor.  Those  in  whom 
natural  enlightenment  has  reacted  against  artificial 
education  submit  because  they  are  compelled;  but  they 
would  resist,  and  finally  resist  effectively,  if  they  were 
not  cowards.  And  they  are  cowards  because  they  have 
neither  an  officially  accredited  and  established  religion 
nor  a  generally  recognized  point  of  honor,  and  are  all  at 
sixes  and  sevens  with  their  various  private  speculations, 
sending  their  children  perforce  to  the  schools  where  they 
will  be  corrupted  for  want  of  any  other  schools.  The 
rulers  are  equally  intimidated  by  the  immense  extension 
and  cheapening  of  the  means  of  slaughter  and  destruc- 
tion. The  British  Government  is  more  afraid  of  Ireland 
now  that  submarines,  bombs,  and  poison  gas  are  cheap 
and  easily  made  than  it  was  of  the  German  Empire 
before  the  war;  consequently  the  old  British  caution 
which  maintaineed  a  balance  of  power  through  command 
of  the  sea  is  intensified  into  a  terror  that  sees  security  in 
nothing  short  of  absolute  military  mastery  of  the  entire 
globe :  that  is,  in  an  impossibility  that  will  yet  seem  pos- 


Back  to  Methuselah  xvii 

sible  in  detail  to  soldiers  and  to  parochial  and  insular 
patriotic  civilians. 

Flimsiness  of  Civilization 
This  situation  has  occurred  so  often  before,  always 
with  the  same  result  of  a  coUapse  of  civilization  (Pro- 
fessor FKnders  Petrie  has  let  out  the  secret  of  previous 
collapses),  that  the  rich  are  instinctively  crying  "Let 
us  eat  and  drink;  for  tomorrow  we  die,"  and  the  poor, 
"How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long?"  But  the  pitiless  reply 
still  is  that  God  helps  those  who  help  themselves.  This 
does  not  mean  that  if  MaxL-cannot  find  the  remedy  no 
remedy  will  be  found.  /The  power  that  produced  Man 
when  the  monkey  was  not  up  to  the  mark,  can  produce  a 
higher  creature  than  Man  if  Man  does  not  come  up  to  ' 
the  mark.  j3Y^?^t  it-flaeaiis,.k..thatilJd[aii.ia^^ 
Man  m^tsf  save,  hiniiself.  There  seems  no  compelling 
reason  why  he  should  be  saved.  He  is  by  no  means  an 
ideal  creature.  At  his  present  best  many  of  his  ways 
are  so  unpleasant  that  they  are  unmentionable  in  polite 
society,  and  so  painful  that  he  is  compelled  to  pretend 
that  pain  is  often  a  good.  Nature  holds  no  brief  for 
the  human  experiment:  it  must  stand  or  fall  by  its 
results.  If  Man  will  not  serve.  Nature  will  try  another^ 
experiment. 

What  hope  is  there  then  of  human  improvement.? 
According  to  the  Neo-Darwinists,  to  the  Mechanists,  no 
hope   whatever,   because   improvement    can    come   only  ^     V: 


w 


v^* 


through   some   senseless   accident   which   must,   on   the  '^\.  ^  jf^l 


\^' 


statistical  average  of  accidents,  be  presently  wiped  out     \,jd^ 
by  some  other  equally  senseless  accident. 

Creative  Evoluticm 
But  this  dismal  creed  does  not  discourage  those  who 
believe   that    the   impulse    that   produces    evolution    is 


xviii  Back  to  Methuselah 

creative.  Thej  have  observed  the  simple  fact  that  the 
will  to  do  anything  can  and  does,  at  a  certain  pitch  of 
intensity  set  up  by  conviction  of  its  necessity,  create  and 
organize  new  tissue  to  do  it  with.  To  them  therefore 
m'ankind  is  by  no  means  played  out  yet.  If  the  weight 
lifter,  under  the  trivial  stimulus  of  an  athletic  compe- 
tition, can  "put  up  a  muscle,"  it  seems  reasonable  to 
believe  that  an  equally  earnest  and  convinced  philosopher 
could  "put  up  a  brain."  Both  are  directions  of  vitality 
to  a  certain  end.  Evolution  shows  us  this  direction  of 
vitality  doing  all  sorts  of  things :  providing  the  centi- 
pede with  a  hundred  legs,  and  ridding  the  fish  of  any 
legs  at  all;  building  lungs  and  arms  for  the  land  and 
gills  and  fins  for  the  sea;  enabling  the  mammal  to 
gestate  its  young  inside  its  body,  and  the  fowl  to  incu- 
bate hers  outside  it ;  offering  us,  we  may  say,  our  choice 
of  any  sort  of  bodily  contrivance  to  maintain  our 
activity  and  increase  our  resources. 

Voluntary  Longevity 
Among  other  matters  apparently  changeable  at  will 
is  the  duration  of  individual  life.  Weismann,  a  very 
clever  and  suggestive  biologist  who  was  unhappily  re- 
duced to  idiocy  by  Neo-Darwinism,  pointed  out  that 
death  is  not  an  eternal  condition  of  life,  but  an  ex- 
pedient introduced  to  provide  for  continual  renewal 
without  overcrowding.  Now  Circumstantial  Selection^ 
does  not  account  for  natural  death :  it  accounts  only  for 
the  survival  of  species  in  w'hich  the  individuals  have 
sense  enough  to  decay  and  die  on  purpose.  But  the 
individuals  do  not  seem  to  have  calculated  very  reason- 
ably: nobody  can  explain  why  a  parrot  should  live  ten 
times  as  long  as  a  dog,  and  a  turtle  be  almost  immortal. 
In  the  case  of  man,  the  operation  has  overshot  its  mark : 
men  do  not  live  long  enough:  they  are,  for  all  the  pur- 


Back  to  Methuselah  xix 

poses  of  high  civilization,  mere  children  when  they  die; 
and  our  Prime  Ministers,  though  rated  as  mature,  divide 
their  time  between  the  golf  course  and  the  Treasury 
Bench  in  parliament.  Presumably,  however,  the  same 
power  that  made  this  mistake  can  remedy  it.  If  on 
opportunist  grounds  Man  now  fixes  the  term  of  his  life 
at  three  score  and  ten  years,  he  can  equally  fix  it  at 
three  hundred,  or  three  thousand,  or  even  at  the  genuine 
Circumstantial  Selection  limit,  which  would  be  until  a 
sooner-or-later-inevitable  fatal  accident  makes  an  end 
of  the  individual.  All  that  is  necessary  to  make  him 
extend  his  present  span  is  that  tremendous  catastrophes 
such  as  the  late  war  shall  coiwittce  bim  of-^th^-necgssity 
of  at  least  outlivrng  his  taste  for  golf  and  cigars  if  the 
%3:a£?  is  to  be  saved.  This  is  not  fantastic  speculation: 
it  is  deductive  biology,  if  there  is  such  a  science  as 
biology.  Here,  then,  is  a  stone  what  we  have  left  un- 
turned, and  that  may  be  worth  turning.  To  make  the 
suggestion  more  entertaining  than  it  would  be  to  most  / 
people  in  the  form  of  a  biological  treatise,  I  have  written/ 
Back  to  Methuselah  as  a  contribution  to  the  modem j 
Bible.  i 

Many  people,  however,  can  read  treatises  and  cannot 
read  Bibles.  Darwin  could  not  read  Shakespear.  Some 
w'ho  can  read  both,  hke  to  learn  the  history  of  their 
ideas.  Some  are  so  entangled  in  the  current  confusion 
of  Creative  Evolution  with  Circumstantial  Selection  by 
their  historical  ignorance  that  they  are  puzzled  by  any 
distinction  between  the  two.  For  all  their  sakes  I  must 
give  here  a  little  history  of  the  conflict  between  the  view 
of  Evolution  taken  by  the  Darwinians  (though  not 
altogether  by  Darwin  himself)  and  called  Natural  Selec- 
tion, and  that  which  is  emerging,  under  the  title  of 
jCreatixe  Evolution,  as  the  genuinely  scientific  religion 
ibrwhich  all  wise  men  are  now  anxiously  looking. 


XX  Back  to  Methuselah 

The  Early  Evolutionists 

The  idea  of  Evolution,  or  Transformation  as  it  is  now 
sometimes  called,  was  not  first  conceived  by  Charles 
Darwin,  or  by  Alfred  Russel  Wallace,  who  observed  the 
operation  of  Circumstantial  Selection  simultaneously 
with  Charles.  The  celebrated  Buffoon  was  a  better 
Evolutionist  than  either  of  them;  and  two  thousand 
years  before  Buffon  was  born,  the  Greek  philosopher 
Empedocles  opined  that  all  forms  of  life  are  trans- 
formations of  four  elements.  Fire,  Air,  Earth,  and 
Water,  effected  by  the  two  innate  forces  of  attraction 
and  repulsion,  or  love  and  hate.  As  lately  as  1860  I 
myself  was  taught  as  a  child  that  everything  was  made 
out  of  these  four  elements.  Both  the  Empedocleans  and 
the  Evolutionists  were  opposed  to  those  who  believed  in 
the  separate  creation  of  all  forms  of  life  as  described  in 
the  book  of  Genesis.  This  "conflict  between  religion  and 
science,"  as  the  phrase  went  then,  did  not  perplex  my 
infant  mind  in  the  least :  I  knew  perfectly  well,  without 
knowing  that  I  knew  it,  that  the  validity  of  a  story  is 
not  the  same  as  the  occurrence  of  a  fact.  But  as  I  grew 
up  I  found  that  I  had  to  dioose  between  Evolution  and 
Genesis.  If  you  believed  that  dogs  and  cats  and  snakes 
and  birds  and  beetles  and  oysters  and  whales  and  men 
and  women  were  all  separately  designed  and  made  and 
named  in  Eden  garden  at  the  beginning  of  things,  and 
have  since  survived  simply  by  reproducing  their  kind, 
then  you  were  not  an  Evolutionist.  If  you  believed,  on 
the  contrary,  that  all  the  different  species  are  modifi- 
cations, variations,  and  elaborations  of  one  primal  stock, 
or  even  of  a  few  primal  stocks,  then  you  were  an  Evo- 
lutionist. But  you  were  not  necessarily  a  Darwinian ;  for 
you  might  have  been  a  modern  Evolutionist  twenty  years 
before  Charles  Darwin  was  born,  and  a  whole  lifetime 
before  he  publi^ed  his  Origin  of  Species.  For  that  mat- 
ter, when  Aristoftlc  grouped  aninnals  with  backbones  as 


Back  to  Methuselah  xxi 

blood  relations,  he  began  the  sort  of  classification 
which,  w'hen  extended  by  Darwin  to  monkeys  and  men, 
so  shocked  my  uncle. 

Genesis  had  held  the  field  until  the  time  (1707-1778) 
Q^juifljoa^us  the  f amons  bijtanist.  In  the  meantime  the 
microscope  had  been  invented.  It  revealed  a  new  world  of 
hitherto  invisible  creatures  called  Infusorians,  as  com- 
mon water  was  found  to  be  an  infusion  of  them.  In  the 
eighteenth  century  naturalists  were  very  keen  on  the 
Infusorian  Amoebas,  and  were  much  struck  by  the  way 
in  which  the  members  of  this  old  family  behaved  and 
developed.  But  it  was  still  possible  for  Linnaeus  to  begin 
a  treatise  by  saying  "There  are  just  so  many  species  as 
there  were  forms  created  in  the  beginning,"  though 
there  were  hundreds  of  commonplace  Scotch  gardeners, 
pigeon  fanciers,  and  stock  breeders  then  living  who  knew 
better.  Linnaeus  himself  knew  better  before  he  died.  In 
the  last  edition  of  his  System  of  Nature,  he  began  to 
wonder  whether  the  transmutation  of  species  by  varia- 
tion might  not  be  possible.  Then  came  the  great  poet 
who  jumped  over  the  facts  to  the  conclusion.  Goethe 
said  that  all  the  shapes  of  creation  were  cousins ;  that 
there  must  be  some  common  stock  from  which  all  the 
species  had  sprung;  that  it  was  the  environment  of  air 
that  had  produced  the  eagle,  of  water  the  seal,  and  of 
earth  the  mole.  He  could  not  say  how  this  happened; 
but  he  divined  that  it  did  happen.  Erasmus  Darwin,  the 
grandfather  of  Charles,  carried  the  environment  theory 
much  further,  pointing  out  instance  after  instance  of 
modifications  made  in  species  apparently  to  adapt  it  to 
circumstances  and  environment:  for  instance,  that  the 
brilliant  colours  of  the  leopard,  which  make  it  so  con- 
spicuous in  Regent's  Park,  conceal  it  in  a  tropical 
jungle.  Finally  he  wrote,  as  his  declaration  of  faith, 
"The  world  has  been  evolved,  not  created:  it  has  arisen 


xxii  Back  to  Methuselah 

little  by  little  from  a  small  beginning,  and  has  increased 
through  the  activity  of  the  elemental  forces  embodied  in 
itself,  and  so  has  rather  grown  than  come  into  being  at 
an  almighty  word.  What  a  subKme  idea  of  the  infinite 
might  of  the  great  Architect,  the  Cause  of  all  causes, 
the  Father  of  all  fathers,  the  Ens  Entium !  For  if  we 
would  compare  the  Infinite,  it  would  surely  require  a 
greater  Infinite  to  cause  the  causes  of  effects  than  to 
produce  the  efi*ects  themselves."  In  this,  published  in 
the  year  1794,  you  have  nineteenth-century  Evolution 
precisely  defined.  And  Erasmus  Darwin  was  by  no 
means  its  only  apostle.  It  was  in  the  air  then.  A  Ger- 
man biologist  named  Treviranus,  whose  book  was  pub- 
lished in  1802,  wrote,  "In  every  living  being  there  exists 
a  capacity  for  endless  diversity  of  form.  Each  possesses 
the  power  of  adapting  its  organization  to  the  variations 
of  the  external  world;  and  it  is  this  power,  called  into 
activity  by  cosmic  changes,  which  has  enabled  the  simple 
zoophytes  of  the  primitive  world  to  climb  to  higher  and 
higher  stages  of  organization,  and  has  brought  endless 
variety  into  nature."  There  you  have  your  evolution  of 
Man  from  the  amoeba  all  complete  whilst  Nelson  was  still 
alive  on  the  seas.  And  in  1809,  before  the  battle  of 
Waterloo,  a  French  soldier  named  Lamarck,  who  had 
beaten  his  musket  into  a  microscope  and  turned 
zooloist,  declared  that  species  were  an  illusion  produced 
by  the  sihortness  of  our  individual  lives,  and  that  they 
were  constantly  changing  and  melting  into  one  another 
and  into  new  forms  as  surely  as  the  hand  of  a  clock  is 
continually  moving,  though  it  moves  so  slowly  that  it 
looks  stationary  to  us.  We  have  since  come  to  think 
that  its  industry  is  less  continuous :  that  the  clock  stops 
for  a  long  time,  and  then  is  suddenly  "put  on"  by  a 
mysterious  finger.  But  never  mind  that  just  at 
present. 


Back  to  Methuselah  xxiii 

The  Advent  of  the  Neo-Lamarckians 

I  call  your  special  attention  to  Lamarck,  because  later 
on  there  were  Neo-Lamarckians  as  well  as  Neo-Dar- 
winians.  I  was  a  Neo-Lamarckian.  Lamarck  passed 
on  from  the  conception  of  Evolution  as  a  general  law  to 
Charles  Darwin's  department  of  it,  which  was  the 
method  of  Evolution.  Lamarck,  whilst  making  many 
ingenious  suggestions  as  to  the  reaction  of  external 
causes  on  life  and  habit,  such  as  changes  of  climate,  food 
supply,  geological  upheavals  and  so  forth,  really  held 
as  his  fundamental  proposition  that  living  organisms 
changed  because  they  wanted  to.  As  he  stated  it,  the 
great  factor  in  Evolution  is  use  and  disuse.  If  you  have 
no  eyes,  and  want  to  see,  and  keep  trying  to  see,  you  will 
finally  get  eyes.  If,  like  a  mole  or  subterranean  fish, 
you  have  eyes  and  dont  want  to  see,  you  will  lose  your 
eyes.  If  you  like  eating  the  tender  tops  of  trees  enough 
to  make  you  concentrate  all  your  energies  on  the  stretch- 
ing of  your  neck,  you  will  finally  get  a  long  neck,  like 
the  giraffe.  This  seems  absurd  to  inconsiderate  people 
at  the  first  blush;  but  it  is  within  the  personal  experi- 
ence of  all  of  us  that  it  is  just  by  this  process  that  a 
child  tumbling  about  the  floor  becomes  a  boy  walking 
erect;  and  that  a  man  sprawling  on  the  road  with  a 
bruised  ohin,  or  supine  on  the  ice  with  a  bashed  occiput, 
becomes  a  bicyclist  and  a  skater.  The  process  is  not 
continuous,  as  it  would  be  if  mere  practice  had  anything 
to  do  with  it;  for  though  you  may  improve  at  each 
bicycling  lesson  during  the  lesson,  when  you  begin  your 
next  lesson  you  do  not  begin  at  the  point  at  which  you 
left  off:  you  relapse  apparently  to  the  beginning. 
Finally,  you  succeed  quite  suddenly,  and  do  not  relapse 
again.  More  miraculous  still,  you  at  once  exercise  the 
new  power  unconsciously.     Although  you  are  adapting 


xxiv  Back  to  Methuselah 

3^oU'r  front  wheel  to  your  balance  so  elaborately  and 
actively  that  the  accidental  locking  of  your  handle  bars 
for  a  second  will  throw  you  off;  thoug*h  five  minutes 
before  you  could  not  do  it  at  all,  yet  now  you  do  it  as 
Unconsciously  as  you  grow  your  finger  nails.  You  have 
a  new  faculty,  and  must  have  created  some  new  bodily 
tissue  as  its  organ.  And  you  have  done  it  solely  by 
willing.  For  here  there  can  be  no  question  of  Circum- 
stantial Selection,  or  the  survival  of  the  fittest.  The 
man  who  is  learning  how  to  ride  a  bicycle  has  no  advan- 
tage over  the  non-cyclist  in  the  struggle  for  existence: 
quite  the  contrary.  He  has  acquired  a  new  habit,  an 
automatic  unconscious  habit,  solely  because  he  wanted 
to,  and  kept  trying  until  it  was  added  into  him. 


How  Acquirements  are  Inherited 

But  when  your  son  tries  to  skate  or  bicycle  in  his  turn, 
he  does  not  pick  up  the  accomplishment  where  you  left 
it,  any  more  than  he  is  born  six  feet  high  with  a  beard 
and  a  tall  hat.  The  set-back  tHiat  occurred  between  your 
lessons  occurs  again.  The  race  learns  exactly  as  the 
individual  learns.  Your  son  relapses,  not  to  the  very 
beginning,  but  to  a  point  which  no  mortal  method  of 
measurement  can  distinguish  from  the  beginning.  Now 
this  is  odd;  for  certain  other  habits  of  yours,  equally 
acquired  (to  the  Evolutionist,  of  course,  all  habits  are 
acquired),  equally  unconscious,  equally  automatic,  are 
transmitted  without  any  perceptible  relapse.  For  in- 
stance, the  very  first  act  of  your  son  when  he  enters  the 
world  as  a  separate  individual  is  to  yell  with  indigna- 
tion :  that  yell  which  Shakespear  thought  the  most  tragic 
and  piteous  of  all  sounds.  In  the  act  of  yelling  he 
begins  to  breathe:  another  habit,  and  not  even  a  neces- 
sary one,  as  the  object  of  breathing  can  be  achieved  in 


Back  to  Methuselah  xxv 

otiher  ways,  as  by  deep  sea  fishes.  He  circulates  his 
blood  by  pumping  it  with  his  heart.  He  demands  a  meal, 
and  proceeds  at  once  to  perform  the  most  elaborate  chem- 
ical operations  on  the  food  he  swallows.  He  manufac- 
tures teeth ;  discards  them ;  and  replaces  them  with  fresh 
ones.  Compared  to  these  habitual  feats,  walking,  stand- 
ing upright,  and  bicycling  are  the  merest  trifles ;  yet  it 
is  only  by  going  throug'h  the  wanting,  trying  process 
that  he  can  stand,  walk,  or  cycle,  whereas  in  the  other 
and  far  more  difficult  and  complex  habits  he  not  only 
does  not  consciously  want  nor  consciously  try,  but  actu- 
ally consciously  objects  very  strongly.  Take  that  early 
habit  of  cutting  the  teeth ;  would  he  do  that  if  he  could 
help  it?  Take  that  later  habit  of  decaying  and  elimi- 
nating himself  by  death — equally  as  acquired  habit,  re- 
member— ^how  he  abhors  it!  Yet  the  habit  has  become 
so  rooted,  so  automatic,  that  he  must  do  it  in  spite  of 
himself,  even  to  his  own  destruction. 

We  have  here  a  routine  which,  given  time  enough  for 
it  to  operate,  will  finally  produce  the  most  elaborate 
forms  of  organized  life  on  Lamarckian  lines  without 
the  intervention  of  Circumstantial  Selection  at  all.  If 
you  can  turn  a  pedestrian  into  a  cyclist,  and  a  cyclist  \ 
into  a  pianist  or  violinist,  without  the  intervention  of 
Circumstantial  Selection,  you  can  turn  an  amoeba  into 
a  man,  or  a  man  into  a  superman,  without  it.  All  of 
which  is  rank  heresy  to  the  Neo-Darwinian,  who  im- 
agines that  if  you  stop  Circumstantial  Selection,  you  not 
only  stop  development  but  inaugurate  a  rapid  and  disas- 
trous degeneration. 

Let  us  fix  the  Lamarckian  evolutionary  process  well 
in  our  minds.  You  are  alive;  and  you  want  to  be  more 
alive.  You  want  an  extension  of  consciousness  and  of 
power.  You  want,  consequently,  additional  organs,  or 
additional  uses  of  your  existing  organs:  that  is,  addi- 


xxvi  Back  to  Methuselah 

tional  habits.  You  get  them  because  you  want  them 
badly  enough  to  keep  trying  for  them  until  they  come. 
No»body  knows  how:  nobody  knows  why:  all  we  know  is 
tiiat  the  thing  actually  takes  place.  We  relapse  miser- 
ably from  effort  to  effort  until  the  old  organ  is  modi- 
fied or  the  new  one  created,  when  suddenly  the  impossible 
becomes  possible  and  the  habit  is  formed.  The  moment 
we  form  it  we  want  to  get  rid  of  the  consciousness  of  it 
so  as  to  economize  our  consciousness  for  fresh  conquests 
of  life;  as  all  consciousness  means  preoccupation  and 
obstruction.  If  we  had  to  think  about  breathing  or 
digesting  or  circulating  our  blood  we  should  have  no 
attention  to  spare  for  anything  else,  as  we  find  to  our 
cost  when  anything  goes  wrong  with  these  operations. 
We  want  to  be  unconscious  of  them  just  as  we  wanted  to 
acquire  them ;  and  we  finally  win  what  we  want.  But  we 
win  unconsciousness  of  our  habits  at  the  cost  of  losing 
our  control  of  them ;  and  we  also  build  one  habit  and  its 
corresponding  functional  modification  of  our  organs  on 
another,  and  so  become  dependent  on  our  old  habits. 
Consequently  we  have  to  persist  in  them  even  when  they 
hurt  us.  We  cannot  stop  breathing  to  avoid  an  attack 
of  asthma,  or  to  escape  drowning.  We  can  lose  a  habit 
and  discard  an  organ  when  we  no  longer  need  them,  just 
as  we  acquired  them ;  but  this  process  is  slow  and  broken 
by  relapses ;  and  relics  of  the  organ  and  the  habit  long 
survive  its  utility.  And  if  other  and  still  indispensable 
habits  and  modifications  have  been  built  on  the  ones  we 
wish  to  discard,  we  must  provide  a  new  foundation  for 
them  before  we  demolish  the  old  one.  This  is  also  a  slow 
process  and  a  very  curious  one. 

The  Miracle  of  Condensed  Recapitulation 
The  relapses  between  t^e  efforts  to  acquire  a  habit  are 
important  because,  as  we  have  seen,  they  recur  not  only 


Back  to  Methuselah  xxvii 

from  effort  to  effort  in  the  case  of  the  individual,  but 
from  generation  to  generation  in  the  case  of  the  race. 
This  relapsing  from  generation  to  generation  is  an  in- 
variable characteristic  of  the  evolutionary  process.  For 
instance,  Raphael,  though  descended  from  eight  unin- 
terrupted generations  of  painters,  had  to  learn  to  paint 
apparently  as  if  no  Sanzio  had  ever  handled  a  brush 
before.  But  he  had  also  to  learn  to  breathe,  and  digest, 
and  circulate  his  blood.  Although  his  father  and  mother 
were  fully  grown  adults  when  he  was  conceived,  he  was 
not  conceived  or  even  born  fully  grown;  he  had  to  go 
back  and  begin  as  a  speck  of  protoplasm,  and  to  strug- 
gle through  an  embryonic  lifetime,  during  part  of  which 
he  was  indistinguishable  from  an  embryonic  dog,  and 
had  neither  a  skull  nor  a  backbone.  When  he  at  last 
acquired  these  articles,  he  was  for  some  time  doubtful 
whether  he  was  a  bird  or  a  fish.  He  had  to  compress 
untold  centuries  of  development  into  nine  months  before 
he  was  human  enough  to  break  loose  as  an  independent 
being.  And  even  then  he  was  still  so  incomplete  that  his 
parents  might  well  have  exclaimed  "Good  Heavens !  have 
you  learnt  nothing  from  our  experience  that  you  come 
into  the  world  in  this  ridiculously  elementary  state? 
Why  cant  you  talk  and  walk  and  paint  and  behave 
decently?"  To  that  question  Baby  Raphael  had  no 
answer.  All  he  could  have  said  was  that  this  is  how 
evolution  or  transformation  happens.  The  time  may 
come  when  the  same  force  that  compressed  the  develop- 
ment of  millions  of  years  into  nine  months  may  pack  ( 
many  more  millions  into  even  a  shorter  space;  so  that  / 
Raphaels  may  be  born  painters  as  they  are  now  born  I 
breathers  and  blood  circulators.  But  they  will  still 
begin  as  specks  of  protoplasm,  and  acquire  the  faculty 
of  painting  in  their  mother's  womb  at  quite  a  late  stage 
of  their  embryonic  life.     They  must  recapitulate  the 


xxviii  Back  to  Methuselah 

history  of  mankind  in  their  own  persons,  however  briefly 
they  may  condense  it. 

Nothing  was  so  astonishing  and  significant  in  the  dis- 
coveries of  the  embryologists,  nor  anything  so  absurdly 
little  appreciated,  as  this  recapitulation,  as  it  is  now 
called :  this  power  of  hurrying  up  into  months  a  process 
which  was  once  so  long  and  tedious  that  the  mere  con- 
templation of  it  is  unendurable  by  men  whose  span  of 
life  is  three-score-and-ten.  It  widened  human  possibili- 
ties to  the  extent  of  enabling  us  to  hope  that  the  most 
prolonged  and  difficult  operations  of  our  minds  may  yet 
become  instantaneous,  or,  as  we  call  it,  instinctive.  It 
also  directed  our  attention  to  examples  of  this  packing 
up  of  centuries  into  seconds  which  were  staring  us  in  the 
face  in  all  directions.  As  I  write  these  lines  the  news- 
papers are  occupied  by  the  exploits  of  a  child  of  eight, 
who  has  just  defeated  twenty  adult  chess  players  in 
twenty  games  played  simultaneously,  and  has  been  able 
afterwards  to  reconstruct  all  the  twenty  games  without 
any  apparent  effort  of  memory.  Most  people,  includ- 
ing myself,  play  chess  (when  they  play  it  at  all)  from 
hand  to  mouth,  and  can  hardly  recall  the  last  move  but 
one,  or  foresee  the  next  but  two.  Also,  when  I  have  to 
make  an  arithmetical  caluclation,  I  have  to  do  it  step 
by  step  with  pencil  and  paper,  slowly,  reluctantly,  and 
with  so  little  confidence  in  the  result  that  I  dare  not  act 
on  it  without  "proving"  the  sum  by  a  further  calcula- 
tion involving  more  ciphering.  But  there  are  men  who 
can  neither  read,  write,  nor  cipher,  to  whom  the  answer 
to  such  sums  as  I  can  do  is  instantly  obvious  without 
any  conscious  calculation  at  all ;  and  the  result  is  infal- 
lible. Yet  some  of  these  natural  arithmeticians  have  but 
a  small  vocabulary ;  are  at  a  loss  when  they  have  to  find 
words  for  any  but  the  simplest  everyday  occasions ;  and 
cannot  for  the  life  of  them  describe  mechanical  opera- 


Back  to  Methuselah  xxix 

tions  which  they  perform  daily  in  the  course  of  their 
trade;  whereas  to  me  the  whole  vocabulary  of  English 
literature,  from  Shakespear  to  the  latest  edition  of  the 
Encyclopaedia  Britannica,  is  so  completely  and  instanta- 
neously at  my  call  that  I  have  never  had  to  consult  even 
a  thesaurus  except  once  or  twice  when  for  some  reason  I 
wanted  a  tlhird  or  fourth  synonym.  Again,  though  I 
have  tried  and  failed  to  draw  recognizable  portraits  of 
persons  I  have  seen  every  day  for  years,  Mr.  Bernard 
Partridge,  having  seen  a  man  once,  will,  without  more 
strain  than  is  involved  in  eating  a  sandwich,  draw  him 
to  the  life.  The  keyboard  of  a  T)iano  is  a  device  I  have 
never  been  able  to  master;  yet  Mr.  Cyril  Scott  uses  it 
exactly  as  I  use  my  own  fingers;  and  to  Sir  Edward 
Elgar  an  orchestral  score  is  as  instantaneously  intel- 
ligible at  sight  as  a  page  of  Shakespear  is  to  me.  One 
man  cannot,  after  trying  for  years,  finger  the  flute 
fluently.  Another  will  take  up  a  flute  with  a  newly 
invented  arrangement  of  keys  on  it,  and  play  it  at  once 
with  hardly  a  mistake.  We  find  people  to  w*hom  writing 
is  so  difficult  that  they  prefer  to  sign  their  name  with  a 
mark,  and  beside  them  men  who  master  systems  of  short- 
hand and  improvise  new  systems  of  their  own  as  easily 
as  they  learnt  the  alphabet.  These  contrasts  are  to  be 
seen  on  all  hands,  and  have  nothing  to  do  with  varia- 
tions in  general  intelligence,  nor  even  in  the  specialized 
intelligence  proper  to  the  faculty  in  question :  for  ex- 
ample, no  composer  or  dramatic  poet  has  ever  pretended 
to  be  able  to  perform  all  the  parts  he  writes  for  the 
singers,  actors,  and  players  who  are  his  executants. 
One  might  as  well  expect  Napoleon  to  be  a  fencer,  or  the 
Astronomer  Royal  to  know  how  many  beans  make  five 
any  better  than  his  bookkeeper.  Even  exceptional 
command  of  language  does  not  Imply  the  possession  of 
ideas  to  express :    Mezzof anti,  the  master  of  fifty-eight 


s 


XXX  Back  to  Methuselah 

languages,  'had  less  to  say  in  them  than  Shakespear 
with  his  httle  Latin  and  less  Greek;  and  public  life  is 
the  paradise  of  voluble  windbags. 

AU  these  examples,  which  might  be  multiplied  by  mil- 
lions, are  cases  in  which  a  long,  laborious,  conscious, 
detailed  process  of  acquirement  has  been  condensed  into 
an  instinctive  and  unconscious  inborn  one.  Factors 
which  formerly  had  to  be  considered  one  by  one  in  suc- 
cession are  integrated  into  what  seems  a  single  simple 
factor.  Chains  of  hardly  soluble  problems  have  coalesced 
in  one  problem  which  solves  itself  the  moment  it  is  raised. 
What  is  more,  they  have  been  pushed  back  (or  forward, 
if  you  like)  from  post-natal  to  pre-natal  ones.  The 
child  in  the  womb  may  take  some  time  over  them ;  but  it 
is  a  miraculously  shortened  time. 

The  time  phenomena  involved  are  curious,  and  suggest 
that  we  are  either  wrong  about  our  history  or  else  that 
we  enormously  exaggerate  the  periods  required  for  the 
pre-natal  acquirement  of  habits.  In  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury we  talked  very  glibly  about  geological  periods,  and 
flung  millions  of  coins  about  in  the  most  lordly  manner 
in  our  reaction  against  Archbishop  Ussher's  chronology. 
We  had  a  craze  for  big  figures,  and  positively  liked  to 
believe  that  the  progress  made  by  the  child  in  the  womb 
in  a  month  was  represented  in  prehistoric  time  by  ages 
and  ages.  We  insisted  that  Evolution  advanced  more 
slowly  than  any  snail  ever  crawled,  and  that  Nature  does 
not  proceed  by  leaps  and  bounds.  This  was  all  very  well 
as  long  as  we  were  dealing  with  such  acquired  habits  as 
breathing  or  digestion.  It  was  possible  to  believe  that 
dozens  of  epochs  had  gone  to  the  slow  building  up  of 
these  habits.  But  when  we  have  to  consider  the  case 
of  a  man  born  not  only  as  an  accomplished  metabolist, 
but  with  such  an  aptitude  for  shorthand  and  keyboard 
manipulation  that  he  is  a  stenographer  or  pianist  at 


Back  to  Methuselah  xxxi 

least  five  sixths  ready-made  as  soon  as  he  can  control  his 
hands  intelhgently,  we  are  forced  to  suspect  either  that 
keyboards  and  shorthand  are  older  inventions  than  we 
suppose,  or  else  that  acquirements  can  be  assimilated 
and  stored  as  congenial  qualifications  in  a  shorter  time 
than  we  think ;  so  that,  as  between  Lyell  and  Archbishop 
Ussher,  the  laugh  may  not  be  with  Lyell  quite  so  up- 
roariously as  it  seemed  fifty  years  ago. 

Heredity  an  Old  Story 

It  Is  evident  that  the  evolutionary  process  is  a  heredi- 
tary one,  iH,  to  put  it  less  drily,  that  human  life  is  con- 
tinuous and  immortal.  The  Evolutionists  took  heredity 
for  granted.  So  did  everybody.  The  human  mind  has 
been  soaked  in  heredity  as  long  back  as  we  can  trace 
its  thought.  Hereditary  peers,  hereditary  monarchs, 
hereditary  castes  and  trades  and  classes  were  the  best 
known  of  social  institutions,  and  in  some  cases  of  public 
nuisances.  Pedigree  men  counted  pedigree  dogs  and 
pedigree  horses  among  their  most  cherished  possessions. 
Far  from  being  unconscious  of  heredity,  or  sceptical, 
men  were  insanely  credulous  about  it:  they  not  only 
believed  in  the  transmission  of  qualities  and  habits  from 
generation  to  generation,  but  expected  the  son  to  begin 
mentally  where  the  father  left  off. 

Xllis^elief  in  heredity  led  naturally  to  the  practice  of 
Iiitjen.tiiinal^  Selection.  Good  blood  and  breeding  were 
eagerly  sought  after  in  human  marriage.  In  dealing 
with  plants  and  animals,  selection  with  a  view  to  the 
production  of  new  varieties  and  the  improvement  and 
modification  of  species  had  been  practised  ever  since  men 
began  to  cultivate  them.  My  pre-Darwinian  uncle  knew 
as  well  as  Darwin  that  the  race-horse  and  the  dray- 
horse  are  not  separate  creations  from  th/^  Garden  of 


xxxii  Back  to  Methuselah 

Eden,  but  adaptations  by  deliberate  human  selection  of 
the  medieval  war-horse  to  modern  racing  and  industrial 
haulage.  He  knew  that  there  are  nearly  two  hundred 
different  sorts  of  dogs,  all  capable  of  breeding  with  one 
another  and  of  producing  cross  varieties  unknown  to 
Adam.  He  knew  that  the  same  thing  is  true  of  pigeons. 
He  knew  that  gardeners  had  spent  their  lives  trying  to 
breed  black  tulips  and  green  carnations  and  unheard-of 
orchids,  and  had  actually  produced  flowers  just  as 
strange  to  Eve.  His  quarrel  with  the  Evolutionists  was 
not  a  quarrel  with  the  evidence  for  Evolution:  he  had 
accepted  enough  of  it  to  prove  Evolution  ten  times  over 
before  he  ever  heard  of  it.  \^%at  he  repudiated  was 
cousinship  with  the  ape,  and  the  implied  suspicion  of  a 
rudimentary  tail,  because  it  was  offensive  to  his  sense 
of  his  own  dignity,  and  because  he  thought  that  apes 
were  ridiculous,  and  tails  diabolical  when  associated  with 
the  erect  posture.  Also  he  believed  that  Evolution  was 
a  heresy  \vhieh  involved  the  destruction  of  Christianity, 
of  which,  as  a  member  of  the  Irish  Church  (the  pseudo- 
Protestant  one),  he  conceived  himself  a  pillar.  But  this 
was  only  his  ignorance ;  for  a  man  may  deny  his  descent 
from  an  ape  and  be  eligible  as  a  churchwarden  without 
being  any  the  less  a  convinced  Evolutionist. 

Discovery  Anticipated  by  Divination 

What  is  more,  the  religious  folk  can  claim  to  be 
among  the  pioneers  of  Evolutionism.  Weismann,  Neo- 
Darwinist  though  he  was,  devoted  a  long  passage  in  his 
History  of  Evolution  to  the  Nature  Philosophy  of 
Lorenz  Oken,  published  in  1809.  Oken  defined  natural 
science  as  "the  science  of  the  everlasting  transmutations 
of  the  Holy  Ghost  in  the  world."  His  religion  had 
started  him  on  the  right  track,  and  not  only  led  him  to 


Back  to  Methuselah  xxxiii 

think  out  a  whole  scheme  of  Evolution  in  abstract  terms, 
but  g-uided  his  aim  in  a  significantly  good  scientific  shot 
which  brought  him  within  the  scope  of  Weismann.  He 
not  only  defined  the  original  substance  from  which  all 
forms  of  life  have  developed  as  protoplasm,  or,  as  he 
called  it,  primitive  slime  (Urschleim),  but  actually  de- 
clared that  this  slime  took  the  form  of  vesicles  out  of 
whidh  the  universe  was  built.  Here  was  the  modern  cell 
morphology  guessed  by  a  religious  thinker  long  before 
the  microscope  and  the  scalpel  forced  it  on  the  vision  of 
mere  laboratory  workers  who  could  not  think  and  had  no 
religion.  The  laboratory  workers  worked  very  hard 
indeed  to  find  out  what  would  happen  to  a  dog  if  they 
tied  up  its  bile  ducts,  or  to  a  monkey  if  half  its  brains 
were  burnt  out  by  a  man  with  no  brains  at  all,  much  as  a 
child  will  pull  off  a  fly's  legs  to  see  what  will  happen 
to  the  fly.  Lorenz  Oken  thought  very  hard  to  find  out 
what  was  happening  to  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  thereby 
made  a  contribution  of  extraordinary  importance  to  our 
understanding  of  creatures  having  nothing  wrong  with 
their  bile  ducts  or  brains.  The  man  who  was  scientific 
enough  to  see  that  the  Holy  Ghost  is  the  most  inter- 
esting of  all  the  hard  facts  of  life  got  easily  in  front 
of  the  blockheads  who  could  only  sin  against  it.  Hence 
my  uncle  was  turning  his  back  on  very  respectable  com- 
pany when  he  derided  Evolution,  and  would  probabW 
have  recanted  and  apologized  at  once  had  anybody 
pointed  out  to  him  what  a  solecisim  he  was  committing. 

The  metaph^^sical  side  of  Evolution  was  thus  no  nov- 
elty when  Darwin  arrived.  Had  Oken  never  lived,  there 
would  still  have  been  millions  of  persons  trained  from 
their  c*hildhood  to  believe  that  we  are  continually  urged 
upwards  by  a  force  called  the  Will  of  God.  In  1819 
Schopenhauer  published  his  treatise  on  The  World  as 
Will,  which  is  the  metaphysical  complement  to  Lamarck's 


xxxiv  Back  to  Methuselah 

natural  'history,  as  it  demonstrates  that  the  driving  force 
behind  Evolution  is  a  will-to-live,  and  to  live,  as  Christ 
said  long  before,  more  abundantly.  And  the  earlier  phil- 
osop'hers,  from  Plato  to  Leibnitz,  had  kept  the  human 
mind  open  for  the  thought  of  the  universe  as  one  idea 
behind  all  its  physically  apprehensible  transformations. 

Corrected  Dates  for  the  Discovery  of  Evolution 

All  this,  remember,  is  the  state  of  things  in  the  pre- 
Darwin  period,  which  so  many  of  us  still  think  of  as  a 
pre-evolutionary  period.  Evolutionism  was  the  rage 
before  Queen  Victoria  came  to  the  throne.  To  fix  this 
chronology,  let  me  repeat  the  story  told  by  Weismann 
of  the  July  revolution  in  Paris  in  1830,  when  the  French^ 
got  rid  of  Charles  the  Tenth.  Goethe  was  then  still 
living;  and  a  French  friend  of  his  called  on  him  and 
found  him  wildly  excited:  "What  do  you  think  of  the 
great  event?"  said  Goethe.  "The  volcano  is  in  erup- 
tion ;  and  all  is  in  flames.  There  can  no  longer  be  dis- 
cussion with  closed  doors."  The  Frenchman  replied  that 
no  doubt  it  was  a  terrible  business ;  but  what  could  they 
expect  with  such  a  ministry  and  such  a  king?  "Stuff!" 
said  Goethe :  "I  am  not  thinking  of  these  people  at  all, 
but  of  the  open  rupture  In  the  French  Academy  between 
Cuvier  and  St.  Hilaire.  It  is  of  the  utmost  importance 
to  science."  The  rupture  Goethe  meant  was  about  Evo- 
lution, Cuvier  contending  that  there  were  four  species, 
and  St.  Hilaire  that  there  was  only  one. 

From  1830,  when  Darwin  was  an  apparently  unprom- 
ising lad  of  seventeen,  until  1859,  when  he  turned  the 
world  upside  down  by  his  Origin  of  Species,  there  was  a 
slump  in  Evolutionism.  The  first  generation  of  Its 
enthusiasts  was  ageing  and  dying  out;  and  their  suc- 
cessors were  being  taught  from  the  Book  of  Genesis, 


Back  to  Methuselah  xxxv 

just  as  Edward  VI  was  (and  Edward  VII  too,  for  that 
matter).  Nobody  who  knew  the  theory  was  adding  any- 
thing to  it.  This  slump  not  only  heightened  the  impres- 
sion of  entire  novelty  when  Darwin  brought  the  subject 
to  the  front  again :  it  probably  prevented  him  from  real- 
izing how  much  had  been  done  before,  even  by  his  own 
grandfather,  to  whom  he  was  accused  of  being  unjust. 
Besides,  he  was  not  really  carrying  on  the  family  busi- 
ness. He  was  an  entirely  original  worker;  and  he  was 
on  a  new  tack,  as  we  shall  see  presently.  And  he  would 
not  in  any  case  have  thoug'ht  much,  as  a  practical 
naturalist,  of  the  more  or  less  mystical  intellectual  specu- 
lations of  the  Deists  of  1790-1830.  Scientific  workers 
were  very  tired  of  Deism  just  thenr  They  had  given  up 
the  riddle  of  the  Great  First  Cause  as  insoluble,  and 
were  calling  themselves,  accordingly.  Agnostics.  They 
had  turned  from  the  inscrutable  question  of  Why  things 
existed,  to  the  spade  work  of  discovering  What  was 
really  occurring  in  the  world  and  How  it  really  occurred. 
With  all  his  attention  bent  in  this  new  direction, 
Darwin  soon  noticed  that  a  good  deal  was  occurring  in 
an  entirely  unmystical  and  even  unmeaning  way  of  which 
the  older  speculative  Deist-Evolutionists  had  taken  little 
or  no  account.  Nowadays,  when  we  are  turning  in 
weary  disgust  and  disillusion  from  Neo-Darwinism  and 
Mechanism  to  Vitalism  and  Creative  Evolution,  it  is 
difficult  to  imagine  how  this  new  departure  of  Darwin's" 
could  possibly  have  appealed  to  his  contemporaries  as 
exciting,  agreeable,  above  all  as  hopeful.  Let  me  there- 
fore try  to  bring  back  something  of  the  atmosphere  of 
that  time  by  describing  a  scene,  very  characteristic  of 
its  superstitions,  in  which  I  took  what  was  then  consid- 
ered an  unspeakably  shocking  part. 


xxxv^  Back  to  Methuselah 

Defying  the  Lightning:  a  Frustrated 
Experiment 

One  evening  in  1878  or  thereabouts,  I,  being  then  in 
my  earhest  twenties,  was  at  a  bachelor  party  of  young 
men  of  the  professional  class  in  the  house  of  a  doctor 
in  the  Kensingtonian  quarter  of  London.  They  fell  to 
talking  about  religious  revivals;  and  an  anecdote  was 
related  of  a  man  who,  having  incautiously  scoffed  at 
the  mission  of  Messrs  Moody  and  Sankey,  a  then  famous 
firm  of  American  evangelists,  was  subsequently  carried 
home  on  a  shutter,  slain  by  divine  vengeance  as  a  blas- 
phemer. A  timid  minority,  without  quite  venturing  to 
question  the  truth  of  the  incident — for  they  naturally 
did  not  care  to  run  the  risk  of  going  home  on  shutters 
themselves — nevertheless  shewed  a  certain  disposition  to 
cavil  at  those  who  exulted  in  it;  and  something  ap- 
proaching to  an  argument  began.  At  last  it  was  alleged 
by  the  most  evangelical  of  the  disputants  that  Charles 
Bradlaugh,  the  most  formidable  atheist  on  the  Secularist 
platform,  had  taken  out  his  watch  publicly  and  chal- 
lenged the  Almighty  to  strike  him  dead  in  five  minutes 
if  he  really  existed  and  disapproved  of  atheism.  The 
leader  of  the  cavillers,  with  great  heat,  repudiated  this  as  a 
gross  calumny,  declaring  that  Bradlaugh  had  repeatedly 
and  indignantly  contradicted  it,  and  implying  that  the 
atheist  champion  was  far  too  pious  a  man  to  commit  such 
a  blasphemy.  This  exquisite  confusion  of  ideas  roused 
my  sense  of  comedy.  It  was  clear  to  me  that  the  chal- 
lenge attributed  to  Charles  Bradlaugh  was  a  scientific 
experiment  of  a  quite  simple,  straightforward,  and 
proper  kind  to  ascertain  whether  the  expression  of  athe- 
istic opinions  really  did  involve  any  personal  risk.  It 
was  certainly  the  method  taught  in  the  Bible,  Elijah 
having  confuted  the  prophets  of  Baal  in  precisely  that 


Back  to  Methuselah  xxxvii 

way,  with  every  circumstance  of  bitter  mockery  of  their 
god  when  he  failed  to  send  down  fire  from  heaven.  Ac- 
cordingly I  said  that  if  the  question  at  issue  were 
whether  the  penalty  of  questioning  the  theology  of 
Messrs  Moody  and  Sankey  was  to  be  struck  dead  on  the 
spot  by  an  incensed  deity,  nothing  could  effect  a  more 
convincing  settlement  of  it  than  the  very  obvious  experi- 
ment attributed  to  Mr  Bradlaugh,  and  that  consequently 
if  he  had  not  tried  it,  he  ought  to  have  tried  it.  The 
omission,  I  added,  was  one  which  could  easily  be  reme- 
died there  and  then,  as  I  happened  to  share  Mr.  Brad- 
laugh's  views  as  to  the  absurdity  of  the  belief  in  these 
violent  interferences  with  the  order  of  nature  by  a  short- 
tempered  and  thin-skinned  supernatural  deity.  There- 
fore— and  at  that  point  I  took  out  my  watch. 

The  effect  was  electrical.  Neither  sceptics  nor  devo- 
tees were  prepared  to  abide  the  result  of  the  experiment. 
In  vain  did  I  urge  the  pious  to  trust  in  the  accuracy  of 
their  deity's  aim  with  a  thunderbolt,  and  the  justice  of 
his  discrimination  between  the  innocent  and  the  guilty. 
In  vain  did  I  appeal  to  the  sceptics  to  accept  the  logical 
outcome  of  their  scepticism :  it  soon  appeared  that  when 
thunderbolts  were  in  question  there  were  no  sceptics. 
Our  host,  seeing  that  his  guests  would  vanish  precipi- 
tately if  the  impious  challenge  were  uttered,  leaving  him 
alone  with  a  solitary  infidel  under  sentence  of  extermina- 
tion in  five  minutes,  interposed  and  forbade  the  experi- 
ment, pleading  at  the  same  time  for  a  change  of  subject. 
I  of  course  complied,  but  could  not  refrain  from  remark- 
ing that  though  the  dreadful  words  had  not  been  uttered, 
yet,  as  the  thought  had  been  formulated  in  my  mind,  it 
was  very  doubtful  whether  the  consequences  could  be 
averted  by  sealing  my  lips.  However,  the  rest  appeared 
to  feel  that  the  game  would  be  played  according  to  the 
rules,  and  it  mattered  very  little  what  I  thought  so  long 


xxxviii  Back  to  Methuselah 

as  I  said  nothing.  Only  the  leader  of  the  evangelical 
party,  I  thought,  was  a  little  preoccupied  until  five  min- 
utes had  elapsed  and  the  weather  was  still  calm. 


In  Quest  of  the  First  Cause 

r    Another  reminiscence.     In  those  days  we  thought  in 
/  terms  of  time  and  space,  of  cause  and  effect,  as  we  still 
/  do;  but  we  do  not  now  demand  from  a  religion  that  it 
/    shall  explain  the  universe  completely  in  terms  of  cause 
I     and  effect,  and  present  the  world  to  us  as  a  manufac- 
1     tured  article  and  as  the  private  property  of  its  Manu- 
^    facturer.     We  did  then.     We  were  invited  to  pity  the 
delusion  of  certain  heathens  who  held  that  the  world  is 
supported  by  an  elephant  who  is  supported  by  a  tortoise. 
Mahomet  decided  that  the  mountains  are  great  weights 
to  keep  the  world  from  being  blown  away  into  space. 
But  we  refuted  these  orientals  by  asking  triumphantly 
what  the  tortoise  stands  on.^*    Freethinkers  asked  which 
came  first :  the  owl  or  the  e:gg.    Nobody  thought  of  say- 
ing that  the  ultimate  problem  of  existence,  being  clearly 
insoluble  and  even  unthinkable  on  causation  lines,  could 
not  be  a  causation  problem.    To  pious  people  this  would 
have  been  flat  atheism,  because  they  assumed  that  God 
must  be  a  Cause,  and  sometimes  called  him  The  Great 

(First  Cause,  or,  in  still  choicer  language,  The  Primal 
Cause.  To  the  Rationalists  it  would  have  been  a  renun- 
ciation of  reason.  Here  and  there  a  man  would  confess 
that  he  stood  as  with  a  dim  lantern  in  a  dense  fog,  and 
could  see  but  a  little  way  in  any  direction  into  infinity. 
But  he  did  not  reaUy  believe  that  infinity  was  infinite  or 
that  the  eternal  was  also  sempitenial :  he  assumed  that  all 
things,  known  and  unknown,  were  caused. 

Hence  it  was  that  I  found  myself  one  day  towards 
the  end  of  the  eighteen-seventies  in  a  cell  in  the  old 


Back  to  Methuselah  xxxix 

Brompton  Oratory  arguing  with  a  Jesuit  father  who 
had  been  called  by  one  of  his  flock  to  attempt  my  con- 
version to  Roman  Catholicism.  The  universe  exists, 
said  the  father:  somebody  must  have  made  it.  If  that 
somebody  exists,  said  I,  somebody  must  have  made  him. 
I  grant  you  that  for  the  sake  of  argument,  said  the 
Jesuit.  I  grant  you  a  maker  of  God.  I  grant  you  a 
maker  of  the  maker  of  God.  I  grant  you  as  long  a  line 
of  makers  as  you  please;  but  an  infinity  of  makers  is 
unthinkable  and  extravagant:  it  is  no  harder  to  believe 
in  number  one  than  in  number  fifty  thousand  or  fifty 
million;  so  why  not  accept  number  one  and  stop  there, 
since  no  attempt  to  get  behind  him  will  remove  your 
logical  difficulty?  By  your  leave,  said  I,  it  is  as  easy 
for  me  to  believe  that  the  universe  made  itself  as  that 
a  maker  of  the  universe  made  himself;  in  fact  much 
easier;  for  the  universe  visibly  exists  and  makes  itself 
as  it  goes  along,  whereas  a  maker  for  it  is  a  hypothesis. 
Of  course  we  could  get  no  further  on  these  lines.  He 
rose  and  said  that  we  were  like  two  men  working  a  saw, 
he  pushing  it  forward  and  I  pushing  it  back,  and  cutting 
nothing ;  but  when  we  had  dropped  the  subj  ect  and  were 
walking  through  the  refectory,  he  returned  to  it  for  a 
moment  to  say  that  he  should  go  mad  if  he  lost  his  belief. 
I,  glorying  in  the  robust  callousness  of  youth  and  the 
comedic  spirit,  felt  quite  comfortable  and  said  so; 
though  I  was  touched,  too,  by  his  evident  sincerity. 

These  two  anecdotes  are  superficially  trivial  and  even 
comic;  but  there  is  an  abyss  of  horror  beneath  them. 
They  reveal  a  condition  so  utterly  irreligious  that  reli- 
gion means  nothing  but  belief  in  a  nursery  bogey,  and 
its  inadequacy  is  demonstrated  by  a  toy  logical  dilemma, 
neither  the  bogey  nor  the  dilemma  having  anything  to 
do  with  religion,  or  being  serious  enough  to  impose  on 
or  confuse  any  properly  educated  child  over  the  age  of 


xl  Back  to  Methuselah 

six.  One  hardly  knows  which  is  the  more  appalling :  the 
abjectness  of  the  credulity  or  the  flippancy  of  the  scep- 
ticism. The  result  was  inevitable.  All  who  were  strong- 
minded  enough  not  to  be  terrified  by  the  bogey  were  left 
stranded  in  empty  contemptuous  negation,  and  argued, 
when  they  argued  at  all,  as  I  argued  with  the  Jesuit. 
But  their  position  was  not  intellectually  comfortable. 
A  member  of  parliament  expressed  their  discomfort 
when,  objecting  to  the  admission  of  Charles  Bradlaugh 
into  parliament,  he  said  "Hang  it  all,  a  man  should  be- 
lieve in  something  or  somebody."  It  was  easy  to  throw 
the  bogey  into  the  dust-bin ;  but  none  the  less  the  world, 
our  corner  of  the  universe,  did  not  look  like  a  pure  acci- 
dent :  it  presented  evidences  of  design  in  every  direction. 
'Inhere  was  mind  and  purpose  behind  it.  As  the  anti- 
Bradlaugh  member  would  have  put  it,  there  must  be 
somebody  behind  the  something:  no  atheist  could  get 
over  that. 


Paley's  Watch 

Paley  had  put  the  argument  in  an  apparently  unan- 
swerable form.  If  you  found  a  watch,  full  of  mechan- 
ism exquisitely  adapted  to  produce  a  series  of  opera- 
tions all  leading  to  the  fulfilment  of  one  central  pur- 
pose of  measuring  for  mankind  the  march  of  the  day 
and  night,  could  you  believe  that  it  was  not  the  work 
of  a  cunning  artificer  who  had  designed  and  contrived 
it  all  to  that  end?  And  here  was  a  far  more  wonderful 
thing  than  a  watch,  a  man  with  all  his  organs  wonder- 
fully contrived,  cords  and  levers,  girders  and  kingposts, 
circulating  systems  of  pipes  and  valves,  dialysing  mem- 
branes, chemical  retorts,  carburettors,  ventilators,  inlets 
and  outlets,  telephone  transmitters  in  his  ears,  light  re- 
corders and  lenses  in  his  eyes:  was  it  conceivable  that 


Back  to  Methuselah  xli 

this  was  the  work  of  chance?  that  no  artificer  had 
wrought  here,  that  there  was  no  purpose  in  this,  no 
design,  no  guiding  intelligence?  The  thing  was  incred- 
ible. In  vain  did  Helmholtz  declare  that  "the  eye  has 
every  possible  defect  that  can  be  found  in  an  optical 
instrument,  and  even  some  peculiar  to  itself,"  and  that 
"if  an  optician  tried  to  sell  me  an  instiTiment  which  had 
all  these  defects  I  should  think  myself  quite  justified  in 
blaming  his  carelessness  in  the  strongest  terms,  and 
sending  him  back  his  instrument."  To  discredit  the 
optician's  skill  was  not  to  get  rid  of  the  optician.  The 
eye  might  not  be  so  cleverly  made  as  Paley  thought; 
but  it  was  made  somehow,  by  somebody. 

And  then  my  argument  with  the  Jesuit  began  all  over 
again.  It  was  easy  enough  to  say  that  every  man  makes 
his  own  eyes:  indeed  the  embryologists  had  actually 
caught  him  doing  it.  But  what  about  the  very  evident 
purpose  that  prompted  him  to  do  it  ?  Why  did  he  want 
to  see,  if  not  to  extend  his  consciousness  and  his  knowl- 
edge and  his  power?  That  purpose  was  at  work  every- 
where, and  mus.t  be  something  bigger  than  the  individual 
eye-making  man.  Only  the  stupidest  muckrakers  could 
fail  to  see  this,  and  even  to  know  it  as  part  of  their  own 
consciousness.  Yet  to  admit  it  seemed  to  involve  letting 
the  bogey  come  back,  so  inextricably  had  we  managed 
to  mix  up  belief  in  the  bogey's  existence  with  belief  in 
the  existence  of  design  in  the  universe. 


The  Irresistible  Cry  of  Order,  Order! 

Our  scornful  young  scientific  and  philosophic  lions  of 
today  must  not  blame  the  Church  of  England  for  this 
confusion  of  thought.  In  1562  the  Church,  in  convoca- 
tion in  London  "for  the  avoiding  of  diversities  of  opin- 
ions and  for  the  establishment  of  consent  touching  true 


xlii  Back  to  Methuselah 

religion,"  proclaimed  in  their  first  utterance,  and  as  an 
Article  of  Religion,  that  God  is  "without  body,  parts,  or 
passions,"  or,  as  we  say,  an  Elan  Vital  or  Life  Force. 
Unfortunately  neither  parents,  parsons,  nor  pedagogues 
could  be  induced  to  adopt  that  article.  St.  John  might 
say  that  "God  is  spirit"  as  pointedly  as  he  pleased ;  our 
Sovereign  Lady  Elizabeth  might  ratify  the  Article 
again  and  again;  serious  divines  might  feel  as  deeply 
as  they  could  that  a  God  with  body,  parts,  and  passions 
could  be  nothing  but  an  anthropomorphic  idol ;  no  mat- 
ter: people  at  large  could  not  conceive  a  God  who  was 
not  anthropomorphic:  they  stood  by  the  Old  Testament 
legends  of  a  God  whose  parts  had  been  seen  by  one  of 
the  patriarchs,  and  finally  set  up  as  against  the  Church, 
a  God  who,  far  from  being  without  body,  parts,  or  pas- 
sions, was  composed  of  nothing  else,  and  of  very  evil 
passions  too.  They  imposed  this  idol  in  practice  on  the 
Church  itself,  in  spite  of  the  First  Article,  and  thereby 
homeopathically  produced  the  atheist,  whose  denial  of 
God  was  simply  a  denial  of  the  idol  and  a  demonstration 
against  an  unbearable  and  most  unchristian  idolatry. 
The  idol  was,  as  Shelley  liad  been  expelled  from  Oxford 
for  pointing  out,  an  almighty  fiend,  with  a  pretty  char- 
acter and  unlimited  power,  spiteful,  cruel,  jealous,  vin- 
dictive, and  physically  violent.  The  most  villainous 
schoolmasters,  the  most  tyrannical  parents,  fell  far  short 
in  their  attempts  to  imitate  it.  But  it  was  not  its  social 
vices  that  brought  it  low.  What  made  it  scientifically 
intolerable  was  that  it  was  ready  at  a  moment's  notice  to 
upset  the  whole  order  of  the  universe  on  the  most  trum- 
pery provocation,  whether  by  stopping  the  sun  in  the 
valley  of  Ajalon  or  sending  an  atheist  home  dead  on  a 
shutter  (the  shutter  was  indispensable  because  it  marked 
the  utter  unpreparedness  of  the  atheist,  who,  unable  to 
save  himself  by  a  deathbed  repentance,  was  subsequently 


Back  to  Methuselah  xliii 

roasted  through  all  eternity  in  blazing  brimstone).     It 
was  this  disorderliness,  tbis  refusal  to  obey  its  own  laws 
of  nature,  that  created  a  scientific  need  for  its  destruc- 
tion.    Science  could  stand  a  cruel  and  unjust  god;  for; 
nature  was  full  of  suffering  and  injustice.     But  a  dis-\ 
orderly  god  was  impossible.   "  In  the  Middle  Ages  a  com-  / 
promise  had  been  made  by  which  two  different  orders  of] 
truth,  religious  and  scientific,  had  been  recognized,  ins^ 
order  that  a  school  man  might  say  that  two  and  two  / 
make  four  without  being  burnt  for  heresy.     But  the  \ 
nineteenth  century,  steeped  in  a  meddling,  presumptuous,  C 
reading-and-writing,  socially  and  politically  powerful  ( 
ignorance  inconceivable  by  Thomas  Aquinas  or  even  / 
Roger  Bacon,  was  incapable  of  so  convenient  an  arrange-  : 
ment ;  and  science  was  strangled  by  bigoted  ignoramuses  '^ 
claiming   infallibility   for  their   interpretation   of   the/ 
Bible,  which  was  regarded,  not  as  a  literature  nor  even^ 
as  a  book,  but  partly  as  an  oracle  which  answered  and 
settled  all  questions,  and  partly  as  a  talisman  to  be  car-  j 
ried  by  soldiers  in  their  breast  pockets  or  placed  under  j 
the  pillows  of  persons  who  were  afraid  of  ghosts.    The 
tract  shops  exhibited  in  their  windows  bullet-dinted  tes- 
taments, mothers'  gifts  to  their  soldier  sons  whose  lives 
had  been  saved  by  it;  for  the  muzzle-loaders  of  those 
days  could  not  drive  a  projectile  through  so  many  pages. 


The  Moment  and  the  Man 

This  superstition  of  a  continual  capricious  disorder 
in  nature,  of  a  lawgiver  who  was  also  a  lawbreaker,  made 
atheists  in  all  directions  among  clever  and  lightminded 
people.  But  atheism  did  not  account  for  Paley's  watch. 
Atheism  accounted  for  nothing ;  and  it  was  the  business 
of  science  to  account  for  everything  that  was  plainly 
accountable.      Science  had  no  use  for  mere  negation: 


xliv  Back  to  Methuselah 

what  was  desired  bj  it  above  all  tilings  just  then  was  a 
demonstration  that  the  evidences  of  design  could  be  ex- 
plained without  resort  to  the  hypothesis  of  a  personal 
designer.  If  only  some  genius,  whilst  admitting  Paley's 
facts,  could  knock  the  brains  out  of  Paley  by  the  dis- 
covery of  a  method  whereby  watches  could  happen  with- 
out watchmakers,  that  genius  was  assured  of  such  a  wel- 
come from  the  thought  of  his  day  as  no  natural  philoso- 
pher had  ever  enjoyed  before. 

The  time  being  thus  ripe,  the  genius  appeared;  and 
his  name  was  Charles  Darwin.  And  now,  what  did  Dar- 
win really  discover.? 

Here,  I  am  afraid,  I  shall  require  once  more  the  assist- 
ance of  the  giraffe,  or,  as  he  was  called  in  the  days  of 
the  celebrated  Buffoon,  the  camelopard  (by  children, 
cammyleopard  ) .  I  do  not  remember  how  this  animal  im- 
posed himself  illustratively  on  the  Evolution  contro- 
versy; but  there  was  no  getting  away  from  him  then; 
and  I  am  old-fashioned  enough  to  be  unable  to  get  away 
from  him  now.  How  did  he  come  by  his  long  neck.'' 
Lamarck  would  have  said,  by  wanting  to  get  at  the  ten- 
der leaves  high  up  on  the  tree,  and  trying  until  he 
succeeded  in  wishing  the  necessary  length  of  neck  into 
existence.  Another  answer  was  also  possible:  namely, 
that  some  prehistoric  stock-breeder,  wishing  to  produce 
a  natural  curiosity,  selected  the  longest-necked  animals 
he  could  find,  and  bred  from  them  until  at  last  an  animal 
with  an  abnormally  long  neck  was  evolved  by  intentional 
selection,  just  as  the  race-'horse  or  the  fan  tail  pigeon 
has  been  evolved.  Bptlj  these  explanations,  3^ou  will  ob- 
serve, involve  consciousness,  will,  design,  purpose,  either 
on  the  part  of  the  animal  itself  or  on  the  part  of  a  supe- 
rior intelligence  controlling  its  des-tinj^^  Darwin  pointed 
out — and  this  and  no  more  was  Darwin's  famous  dis- 
covery— ^that  a  third  explanation,  involving  neither  will 


Back  to  Methuselah  xlv 

nor  purpose  nor  design  either  in  the  animal  or  anyone,, 
else,  was  on  the  cards-  If  your  neck  is  too  short  to 
reach  your  food,  you  die.  That  may  be  the  simple  ex- 
planation of  the  fact  that  all  the  surviving  animals  that 
feed  on  foliage  have  necks  or  trunks  long  enough  to 
reach  it.  So  bang  goes  your  belief  that  the  necks  must 
have  been  designed  to  reach  the  food.  But  Lamarck  did 
not  believe  that  the  necks  were  so  designed  in  the  be- 
ginning: he  believed  that  the  long  necks  were  evolved 
by  wanting  and  trying.  Not  necessarily,  said  Darwin. 
Consider  the  effect  on  the  giraffes  of  the  natural  multi- 
plication of  their  numbers,  as  insisted  on  by  Malthus. 
Suppose  the  average  height  of  the  foliage-eating  ani- 
mals is  four  feet,  and  that  they  increase  in  numbers 
untn  a  time  comes  when  all  the  trees  are  eaten  away  to 
within  four  feet  of  the  ground.  Then  the  animals  who 
happen  to  be  an  inch  or  two  short  of  the  average  will 
die  of  starvation.  All  the  animals  who  happen  to  be  an 
inch  or  so  above  the  average  will  be  better  fed  and 
stronger  than  the  others.  They  will  secure  the  strong- 
est and  tallest  mates;  and  their  progeny  will  survive 
whilst  the  average  ones  and  the  sub-average  ones  will 
die  out.  This  process,  by  which  the  species  gains,  say, 
an  inch  in  reach,  will  repeat  itself  until  the  giraffe's  neck 
is  so  long  that  he  can  always  find  food  enough  within 
his  reach,  at  which  point,  of  course,  the  selective  process 
stops  and  the  length  of  the  giraffe's  neck  stops  with  it. 
Otherwise,  he  would  grow  until  he  could  browse  off  the 
trees  in  the  moon.  And  this,  mark  you,  without  the  in- 
tervention of  any  stock-breeder,  human  or  divine,  and 
without  will,  purpose,  design,  or  even  consciousness  be- 
yond the  blind  will  to  satisfy  hunger.  It  is  true  that 
this  blind  will,  being  in  effect  a  will  to  live,  gives  away 
the  whole  case;  but  still,  as  compared  to  the  open-eyed 
intelligent  wanting  and  trying  of  Lamarck,  the  Dar- 


xlvi  Back  to  MethuselaH 

winian  process  may  be  described  as  a  chapter  of  acci- 
dents. As  such,  it  seems  simple,  because  you  do  not  at 
first  realize  all  that  it  involves.  But  when  its  w'hole  sig- 
nificance dawns  on  you,  your  heart  sinks  into  a  heap  of 
sand  within  you.  There  is  a  hideous  fatalism  about  it, 
a  gihastly  and  damnable  reduction  of  beauty  and  intelli- 
gence, of  strength  and  purpose,  of  honor  and  aspiration, 
to  such  casually  picturesque  changes  as  an  avalanche 
may  make  in  landscape,  or  a  railway  accident  in  a  human 
figure.  To  call  this  Natural  Selection  is  a  blasphemy, 
possible  to  many  for  whom  Nature  is  nothing  but  a 
casual  aggregation  of  inert  and  dead  matter,  but  eter- 
nally impossible  to  the  spirits  and  souls  of  the  righteous. 
If  it  be  no  blasphemy,  but  a  truth  of  science,  then  the 
stars  of  heaven,  the  showers  and  dew,  the  winter  and 
summer,  the  fire  and  heat,  the  mountains  and  hills,  may 
no  longer  be  called  to  exalt  the  Lord  with  us  by  praise : 
their  work  is  to  modify  all  things  by  blindly  starving 
and  murdering  everything  that  is  not  lucky  enoug'h  to 
survive  in  the  universal  struggle  for  hogwash. 

The  Brink  of  the  Bottomless  Pit 

Thus  did  the  neck  of  the  giraffe  reach  out  across  the 
whole  heavens  and  make  men  believe  that  what  they  saw 
there  was  a  gloaming  of  the  gods.  For  if  this  sort  of 
selection  could  turn  an  antelope  into  a  giraffe,  it  could 
conceivably  turn  a  pond  full  of  amcebas  into  the  French 
Academy.  Though  Lamarck's  way,  the  way  of  life,  will, 
aspiration,  and  achievement,  remained  still  possible,  this 
newly  shewn  way  of  hunger,  death,  stupidity,  delusion, 
chance,  and  bare  survival  was  also  possible:  was  indeed 
most  certainly  the  way  in  w'hich  many  apparently  intel- 
ligently designed  transformations  had  actually  come  to 
pass.     Had  I  not  preluded  with  the  apparently  idle 


Back  to  Methuselah  xlvii 

story  of  my  revival  of  the  controversial  methods  of 
Elijah,  I  should  be  asked  how  it  was  that  the  explorer 
who  opened  up  this  gulf  of  despair,  far  from  being  stoned 
or  crucified  as  the  destroyer  of  the  honor  of  the  race  and 
the  purpose  of  the  world,  was  hailed  as  Deliverer,  Savior, 
Prophet,  Redeemer,  Enlightener,  Rescuer,  Hope  Giver, 
and  Epoch  Maker ;  whilst  poor  Lamarck  was  swept  aside 
as  a  crude  and  exploded  guesser  hardly  worthy  to  be 
named  as  his  erroneous  forerunner.  In  the  light  of  my 
anecdote,  the  explanation  is  obvious.  The  first  thing 
the  gulf  did  was  to  swallow  up  Paley,  and  the  Disorderly 
Designer,  and  Shelley's  Almighty  Fiend,  and  all  the  rest 
of  the  pseduo-religlous  rubbish  that  had  blocked  every 
upward  and  onward  path  since  the  hopes  of  men  had 
turned  to  Science  as  their  true  Savior.  It  seemed  such 
a  convenient  grave  that  nobody  at  first  noticed  that  it 
was  nothing  less  than  the  bottomless  pit,  now  become  a 
very  real  terror.  For  though  Darwin  left  a  path  round 
it  for  his  soul,  his  followers  presently  dug  it  right  across 
the  whole  width  of  the  way.  Yet  for  the  moment,  there 
was  nothing  but  wild  rejoicing:  a  sort  of  scientific  maf- 
ficking. We  had  been  so  oppressed  by  the  notion  that 
everything  that  happened  in  the  world  was  the  arbitrary 
personal  act  of  an  arbitrary  personal  god  of  danger- 
ously jealous  and  cruel  personal  character,  so  that  even 
the  relief  of  the  pains  of  childbed  and  the  operating 
table  by  chloroform  was  objected  to  as  an  interference 
with  his  arrangements  which  he  would  probably  resent, 
that  we  just  jumped  at  Darwin.  When  Napoleon  was 
asked  what  would  happen  when  he  died,  he  said  that 
Europe  would  express  its  intense  relief  with  a  great 
"Ouf !"  Well,  when  Darwin  killed  the  god  who  objected 
to  chloroform,  everybody  who  had  ever  thought  about  it 
said  "Ouf !"  Paley  was  burled  fathoms  deep  with  his 
watch,  now  fully  accounted  for  without  any  divine  arti- 


xlviii  Back  to  Methuselah 

(leer  at  all.  We  were  so  glad  to  be  rid  of  both  that  we 
never  gave  a  thought  to  the  consequences.  When  a 
prisoner  sees  the  door  of  his  dungeon  open,  he  dashes 
for  X '  without  stopping  to  think  where  he  shall  get  his 
dinner  outside.  The  moment  we  found  that  we  could  do 
without  Shelley's  almighty  fiend  intellectually,  he  went 
into  the  gulf  that  seemed  only  a  dustbin  with  a  sudden- 
ness that  made  our  own  lives  one  of  the  most  astonishing 
periods  in  history.  If  I  had  told  that  uncle  of  mine  that 
within  thirty  years  from  the  date  of  our  conversation 
I  should  be  exposing  myself  to  suspicions  of  the  grossest 
superstition  by  questioning  the  sufficiency  of  Darwin; 
maintaining  the  reality  of  the  Holy  Ghost;  and  declar- 
ing that  the  phenomenon  of  the  Word  becoming  Flesh 
was  occurring  daily,  he  would  have  regarded  me  as  the 
most  extravagant  madman  our  family  had  ever  pro- 
duced. Yet  it  was  so.  lu  1906  I  might  have  vituper- 
ated Jehovah  more  heartily  than  ever  Shelley  did  without 
eliciting  a  protest  in  any  circle  of  thinkers,  or  shocking 
any  public  audience  accustomed  to  modem  discussion; 
but  when  I  described  Darwin  as  "an  intelligent  and  in- 
dustrious pigeon  fancier,"  that  blasphemous  levity,  as  it 
seemed,  was  received  with  horror  and  indignation.  The 
tide  has  now  turned ;  and  every  puny  whipster  may  say 
what  he  likes  about  Darwin ;  but  anyone  who  wants  to 
know  what  it  was  to  be  a  Lamarckian  during  the  last 
quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century  has  only  to  read  Mr. 
Festing  Jones's  memoir  of  Samuel  Butler  to  learn  how 
completely  even  a  man  of  genius  could  isolate  himself  by 
antagonizing  Darwin  on  the  one  hand  and  the  Church 
on  the  other. 

Why  Darwin  Converted  the  Crowd 
I  am  well  aware  that  in  describing  the  effect  of  Dar- 
win's discovery  on  naturalists  and  on  persons  capable  of 


Back  to  Methuselah  xlix 

serious  reflection  on  the  nature  and  attributes  of  God,  I 
am  leaving  the  vast  mass  of  the  British  public  out  of 
account.  I  have  pointed  out  elsewhere  that  the  British 
nation  does  not  consist  of  atheists  and  Plymouth  Broth- 
ers; and  I  am  not  now  going  to  pretend  that  it  ever 
consisted  of  Darwinians  and  Lamarckians.  The  average 
citizen  is  irreligious  and  unscientific:  you  talk  to  him 
about  cricket  and  golf,  market  prices  and  party  politics, 
not  about  evolution  and  relativity,  transubstantiation 
and  predestination.  Nothing  will  knock  into  his  head 
the  fateful  distinction  between  Evolution  as  promul- 
gated by  Erasmus  Darwin,  and  Circumstantial  (so- 
called  Natural)  Selection  as  revealed  by  his  grandson. 
Yet  the  doctrine  of  Charles  reached  him,  though  the 
doctrine  of  Erasmus  had  passed  over  his  head.  Why 
did  not  Erasmus  Darwin  popularize  the  word  Evolution 
as  effectively  as  Charles.? 

The  reason  was,  I  think,  that  Circumstantial  Selection 
is  easier  to  understand,  more  visible  and  concrete,  than 
Lamarckian  evolution.  Evolution  as  a  philosophy  and 
physiology  of  the  will  is  a  mystical  process,  which  can 
be  apprehended  only  by  a  trained,  apt,  and  compre- 
hensive thinker.  Though  the  phenomena  of  use  and 
disuse,  of  wanting  and  trying,  of  the  manufacture  of 
weight  lifters  and  wrestlers  from  men  of  ordinary 
strength,  are  familiar  enough  as  facts,  they  are  ex- 
tremely puzzling  as  subjects  of  thought,  and  lead  you 
into  metaphysics  the  moment  you  try  to  account  for 
them.  But  pigeon  fanciers,  dog  fanciers,  gardeners, 
stock  breeders,  or  stud  groom.s,  can  understand  Circum- 
stantial Selection,  because  it  is  their  business  to  produce 
transformation  by  imposing  on  flowers  and  animals  a 
Selection  From  Without.  All  that  Darwin  had  to  say 
to  them  was  that  the  mere  chapter  of  accidents  is 
always  doing  on  a  huge  scale  what  they  themselves  are 


1  Back  to  Methuselah 

doing  on  a  very  small  scale.  There  is  hardly  a  laborer 
attached  to  an  English  country  house  who  has  not  taken 
a  litter  of  kittens  or  puppies  to  the  bucket,  and  drowned 
all  of  them  except  the  one  he  thinks  the  most  promising. 
Such  a  man  has  nothing  to  learn  about  the  survival  of 
the  fittest  except  that  it  acts  in  more  ways  than  he  has 
yet  noticed;  for  he  knows  quite  well,  as  you  will  find  if 
you  are  not  too  proud  to  talk  to  him,  that  this  sort  of 
selection  occurs  naturally  (in  Dai-win's  sense)  too:  that, 
for  instance,  a  hard  winter  will  kill  off  a  weakly  child  as 
the  bucket  kills  off  a  weakly  puppy.  Then  there  is  the 
farm  laborer.  Shakespear's  Touchstone,  a  court-bred 
fool,  was  shocked  to  find  in  the  shepherd  a  natural 
philosopher,  and  opined  that  he  would  be  damned  for 
the  part  he  took  in  the  sexual  selection  of  sheep.  As  to 
the  production  of  new  species  by  the  selection  of  vari- 
ations, that  is  no  news  to  your  gardener.  Now  if  you 
are  familiar  with  these  three  processes :  the  survival  of 
the  fittest,  sexual  selection,  and  variation  leading  to 
new  kinds,  there  is  nothing  to  puzzle  you  in  Darwinism. 
That  was  the  secret  of  Darwin's  popularit3\  He 
never  puzzled  anybody.  If  very  few  of  us  have  read 
The  Orgin  of  Species  from  end  to  end,  it  is  not  because 
it  overtaxes  our  mind,  but  because  we  take  in  the  whole 
case  and  are  prepared  to  accept  it  long  before  we  have 
come  to  the  end  of  the  innumerable  instances  and  illus- 
trations of  which  the  book  mainly  consists.  Darwin 
becomes  tedious  in  the  manner  of  a  man  who  insists  on 
continuing  to  prove  his  innocence  after  he  has  been 
acquitted.  You  assure  him  that  there  is  not  a  stain  on 
his  character,  and  beg  him  to  leave  the  court;  but  he 
will  not  be  content  with  enough  evidence:  he  will  have 
you  listen  to  all  the  evidence  that  exists  in  the  world. 
Darwin's  industry  was  enormous.  His  patience,  his 
perseverance,  his   conscientiousness   reached  the  human 


Back  to  Methuselah  li 

limit.  But  he  never  got  deeper  beneath  or  higher  above 
his  facts  than  an  ordinary  man  could  follow  him.  He 
was  not  conscious  of  having  raised  a  stupendous  issue, 
because,  though  it  arose  instantly,  it  was  not  his  busi- 
ness. He  was  conscious  of  having  discovered  a  process 
of  transformation  and  modification  which  accounted  for 
a  great  deal  of  natural  history.  But  he  did  not  put  it 
forward  as  accounting  for  the  whole  of  natural  history. 
He  included  it  under  the  heading  of  Evolution,  though 
it  was  only  pseudo-evolution  at  best;  but  he  revealed  it 
as  a  method  of  evolution,  not  as  the  method  of  evolution. 
He  did  not  pretend  that  it  excluded  other  methods,  or 
that  it  was  the  chief  method.  Though  he  demonstrated 
that  many  transformations  which  had  been  taken  as 
functional  adaptations  (the  current  phrase  for 
Lamarckian  evolution)  either  certainly  were  or  conceiv- 
ably  might  be  due  to  Circumstantial  Selection,  he  was 
careful  not  to  claim  that  he  had  superseded  Lamarck  or 
disproved  Functional  Adaptation.  In  short,  he  was  not 
a  Darwinian,  but  an  honest  naturalist  working  away  at 
his  job  with  so  little  preoccupation  with  theological 
speculation  that  he  never  quarelled  with  the  small  evan- 
gelical sect  into  which  he  was  born,  and  remained  to  the 
end  the  engagingly  simple  and  socially  easygoing  soul 
he  had  been  in  his  boyhood,  when  his  elders  doubted 
whether  he  would  ever  be  of  much  use  in  the  world. 


How  We  Rushed  Down  a  Steep  Place 

Not  so  the  rest  of  us  intellectuals.  We  all  began 
going  to  the  devil  with  the  utmost  cheerfulness.  Every 
one  who  had  a  mind  to  change,  changed  it.  Only  Samuel 
Butler,  on  whom  Darwin  had  acted  homeopathically, 
reacted  against  him  furiously;  ran  up  the  Lamarckian 
flag  to  the  top-gallant  peak ;  declared  with  penetrating 


lii  Back  to  Methuselah 

accuracy  that  Darwin  had  "banished  mind  from  the  uni- 
verse" ;  and  even  attacked  Darwin's  personal  character, 
unable  to  bear  the  fact  that  the  author  of  so  abhorrent 
a  doctrine  was  an  amiable  and  upright  man.  Nobody 
would  listen  to  him.  He  was  so  completely  submerged 
by  the  flowing  tide  of  Darwinism  that  when  Darwin 
wanted  to  clear  up  the  misunderstanding  on  which  Butler 
was  basing  his  personal  attacks,  Darwin's  friends,  very 
foolishly  and  snobbishly,  persuaded  him  that  Butler  was 
too  ill-conditioned  and  negligible  to  be  answered.  That 
they  could  not  recognize  in  Butler  a  man  of  genius  mat- 
tered little:  what  did  matter  was  that  they  could  not 
understand  the  provocation  under  which  he  was  raging. 
They  actually  regarded  the  banishment  of  mind  from 
the  universe  as  a  glorious  enlightenment  and  emancipa- 
tion for  which  he  was  ignorantly  ungrateful.  Even  now, 
when  Butler's  eminence  is  unchallenged,  and  his  bi- 
ographer, Mr.  Festing  Jones,  is  enjoying  a  vogue  like 
that  of  Boswell  or  Lockhart,  his  memoirs  shew  him 
rather  as  a  shocking  example  of  the  bad  controversial 
manners  of  our  country  parsonages  than  as  a  prophet 
who  tried  to  head  us  back  when  we  were  gaily  dancing 
to  our  damnation  across  the  rainbow  bridge  which  Dar- 
winism had  thrown  over  the  gulf  which  separates  life 
and  hope  from  death  and  despair.  We  were  intellect- 
ually intoxicated  with  the  idea  that  the  world  could 
5  make  itself  without  design,  purpose,  skill,  or  intelli- 
)  gence :  in  short,  without  life.  We  completely  overlooked 
\  the  difi^erence  between  the  modification  of  species  by 
I  adaptation  to  their  environment  and  the  appearance  of 
Snew  species:  we  just  threw  in  the  word  "variations"  or 
Ithe  word  "sports"  (fancy  a  man  of  science  talking  of  an 
(unknown  factor  as  a  sport  instead  of  as  x\)  and  left 
pem  to  "accumulate"  and  account  for  the  difference 
between  a  cockatoo  and  a  hippopotamus.     Such  phrases 


Back  to  Methuselah  liii 

set  us  free  to  revel  in  demonstrating  to  the  Vitalists  and 
Bible  worshippers  that  if  we  once  admit  the  existence 
of  any  kind  of  force,  however  unintelligent,  and  stretch 
out  the  past  to  unlimited  time  for  such  force  to  operate 
accidentally  in,  that  force  may  conceivably,  by  the  action 
of  Circumstantial  Selection,  produce  a  world  in  which 
every  function  has  an  organ  perfectly  adapted  to  per- 
form it,  and  therefore  presents  every  appearance  of 
having  been  designed,  like  Paley's  watch,  by  a  conscious 
and  intelligent  artificer  for  the  purpose.  We  took  a 
perverse  pleasure  in  arguing,  without  the  least  suspicion 
that  we  were  reducing  ourselves  to  absurdity,  that  all 
the  books  in  the  British  Museum  library  might  have  been 
written  word  for  word  as  they  stand  on  the  shelves  if  no 
human  being  had  ever  been  conscious,  just  as  the  trees 
stand  in  the  forest  doing  wonderful  things  without 
consciousness. 

And  the  Darwinians  went  far  beyond  denying  con- 
sciousness to  trees.  Weismann  insisted  that  the  chick 
breaks  out  of  its  eggshell  automatically;  that  the  but- 
terfly, springing  into  the  air  to  avoid  the  pounce  of  the 
lizard,  "does  not  wish  to  avoid  death;  knows  nothing 
about  death,"  what  has  happened  being  simply  that  a 
flight  Instinct  evolved  by  Circumstantial  Selection  reacts 
promptly  to  a  visual  impression  produced  by  the  lizard's 
movement.  His  proof  is  that  the  butterfly  immediately 
settles  again  on  the  flower,  and  repeats  the  perfonnance 
every  time  the  lizard  springs,  thus  shewing  that  it  learns 
nothing  from  experience,  and — ^Weismann  concludes — 
IS  not  conscious  of  what  it  does. 

It  should  hardly  have  escaj>ed  so  curious  an  observer 
that  when  the  cat  jumps  up  on  the  dinner  table,  and  you 
put  it  down,  it  instantly  jumps  up  again,  and  finally 
establishes  its  right  to  a  place  on  the  cloth  by  convincing 
you  that  if  you  put  it  down  a  hundred  times  it  will  jump 


liv  Back  to  Methuselah 

up  a  hundred  and  one  times;  so  that  if  jou  desire  its 

company  at  dinner  you  can  have  it  only  on  its  own  terms. 

If  Weismann  really  thought  that  cats  act  thus  without 

any  consciousness  or  any  purpose,  immediate  or  ulterior, 

he  must  have   known  very  little  •  about   cats.      But   a 

thoroughgoing  Weismannite,  if  any  such  still  survive 

from  those  mad  days,  would  contend  that  I  am  not  at 

present  necessarily  conscious  of  what  I  am  doing;  that 

my  writing  of  these  lines,  and  your  reading  of  them, 

are  effects  of  Circumstantial  Selection ;  that  I  need  know 

no  more  about  Darwinism  than  a  butterfly  knows  of  a 

lizard's  appetite ;  and  that  the  proof  that  I  actually  am 

doing  it  unconsciously  is  that  as  I  have  spent  forty 

years  in  writing  in  this  fashion  without,  as  far  as  I  can 

j  see,  producing  any  visible  effect  on  public  opinion,  I 

f  must  be  incapable  of  learning  from  experience,  and  am 

I  therefore   a   mere    automaton.      And   the   Weismannite 

\  demonstration  of  this  would  of  course  be  an  equally 

unconscious  effect  of  Circumstantial  Selection. 


Darwinism  Not  Finally  Refutable 

Do  not  too  hastily  say  that  this  is  inconceivable.  To 
Circumstantial  Selection  all  mechanical  and  chemical 
reactions  are  possible,  provided  you  accept  the  geolo- 
gists' estimates  of  the  great  age  of  the  earth,  and  there- 
fore allow  time  enough  for  the  circumstances  to  operate. 
It  is  true  that  mere  survival  of  the  fittest  in  the  struggle 
for  existence  plus  sexual  selection  fail  as  hopelessly  to 
account  for  Darwin's  own  life  work  as  for  my  conquest 
of  the  bicycle;  but  who  can  prove  that  there  are  not 
other  soulless  factors,  unnoticed  or  undiscovered,  which 
only  require  imagination  enough  to  fit  them  to  the  evo- 
lution of  an  automatic  Jesus  or  Shakespear?  When  a 
man  tells  you  that  you  are  a  product  of  Circumstantial 


Back  to  Methuselah  Iv 

Selection  solely,  you  cannot  finally  disprove  it.  You 
can  only  tell  him  out  of  the  depths  of  your  inner  con- 
viction that  he  is  a  fool  and  a  liar.  But  as  this,  though 
British,  is  uncivil,  it  is  wiser  to  offer  him  the  counter- 
assurance  that  you  are  the  product  of  Lamarckian 
evolution,  formerly  called  Functional  Adaptation  and 
new  Creative  Evolution,  and  challenge  him  to  disprove 
that,  which  he  can  no  more  do  than  you  can  disprove 
Circumstantial  Selection,  both  forces  being  conceivably 
able  to  produce  anything  if  you  only  give  them  rope 
enough.  You  may  also  defy  him  to  act  for  a  single 
'hour  on  the  assumption  that  he  may  safely  cross  Oxford 
Street  in  a  state  of  unconsciousness,  trusting  to  his 
dodging  reflexes  to  react  automatically  and  promptly 
enough  to  the  visual  impression  produced  by  a  motor 
bus,  and  the  audible  impression  produced  by  its  hooter. 
But  if  you  allow  yourself  to  defy  him  to  explain  any 
particular  action  of  yours  by  Circumstantial  Selection, 
he  should  always  be  able  to  find  some  explanation  that 
will  fit  the  case  if  only  he  is  ingenious  enough  and  goes 
far  enough  to  find  it.  Darwin  found  several  such  ex- 
planations in  his  controversies.  Anybody  who  really 
wants  to  believe  that  the  universe  has  been  produced  by 
Circumstantial  Selection  co-operating  with  a  force  as 
inhuman  as  we  conceive  magnetism  to  be  can  find  a 
logical  excuse  for  his  belief  if  he  tries  hard  enough. 

Three  Blind  Mice 

The  stultification  and  damnation  which  ensued  are 
illustrated  by  a  comparison  of  the  ease  and  certainty 
with  which  Butler's  mind  moved  to  humane  and  inspir- 
ing conclusions  with  the  grotesque  stupidities  and 
cruelties  of  the  idle  and  silly  controversy  which  arose 
among  the  Darwinians  as  to  whether  acquired  habits 


Ivi  Back  to  Methuselah 

can  be  transmitted  from  parents  tc  offspring.  Consider, 
for  example,  how  Weismann  set  to  work  on  that  subject. 
An  Evolutionist  with  a  live  mind  would  first  have 
dropped  the  popular  expression  "acquired  habits,"  be- 
cause to  an  Evolutionist  there  are  no  other  habits  and 
can  be  no  others,  a  man  being  only  an  amceba  with 
acquirements.  He  would  then  have  considered  carefully 
the  process  by  which  he  himself  had  acquired  his  habits. 
He  would  have  assumed  that  the  habits  with  which  he 
was  born  must  have  been  acquired  by  a  similar  process. 
He  would  have  known  what  a  habit  is :  that  is,  an  action 
voluntarily  attempted  until  it  has  become  more  or  less 
automatic  and  involuntary;  and  it  would  never  have 
occurred  to  him  that  injuries  or  accidents  coming  from 
external  sources  against  the  will  of  the  victim  could  pos- 
sibly establish  a  habit :  that,  for  instance,  a  family  could 
acquire  a  habit  of  being  killed  in  railway  accidents. 

And  3'et  Weismann  began  to  investigate  the  point  by 
behaving  like  the  butcher's  wife  in  the  old  catch.  He 
got  a  colony  of  mice,  and  cut  off  their  tails.  Then  he 
waited  to  see  whether  their  children  would  be  bom  with- 
out tails.  They  were  not,  as  Butler  could  have  told  him 
beforehand.  He  then  cut  off  the  children's  tails,  and 
waited  to  see  whether  the  grandchildren  would  be  born 
with  at  least  rather  short  tails.  They  were  not,  as  I 
could  have  told  him  beforehand.  So  with  the  patience 
and  industry  on  which  men  of  science  pride  themselves, 
he  cut  off  the  grandchildren's  tails  too,  and  waited,  full 
of  hope,  for  the  birth  of  curtailed  great-grandchildren. 
But  their  tails  were  quite  up  to  the  mark,  as  any  fool 
could  have  told  him  beforehand.  Weismann  then 
gravely  drew  the  inference  that  acquired  habits  cannot 
be  transmitted.  And  yet  Weismann  was  not  a  born 
imbecile.  He  was  an  exceptionally  clever  and  studious 
man,  not  without  roots  of  imagination  and  philosophy  in 


Back  to  Methuselah  Ivii 

him  which  Darwinism  killed  as  weeds.  How  was  it  that 
he  did  not  see  that  he  was  not  experimenting  with  habits 
or  characteristics  at  all?  How  had  he  overlooked  the 
glaring  fact  that  his  experiment  had  been  tried  for  man^ 
generations  in  China  on  the  feet  of  Chinese  women  with- 
out producing  the  smallest  tendency  on  their  part  to  be 
born  with  abnormally  small  feet?  He  must  have  known 
about  the  bound  feet  even 'if  he  knew  nothing  of  the 
mutilations,  the  clipped  ears  and  docked  tails,  practised 
by  dog  fanciers  and  horse  breeders  on  many  generations 
of  the  unfortunate  animals  they  deal  in.  Such  amazing 
blindness  and  stupidity  on  the  part  of  a  man  who  was 
naturally  neither  blind  nor  stupid  is  a  telling  illustration 
of  what  Darwin  unintentionally  did  to  the  minds  of  his 
disciples  by  turning  their  attention  so  exclusively 
towards  the  part  played  in  Evolution  by  accident  and 
violence  operating  with  entire  callousness  to  suffering 
and  sentiment. 

A  vital  conception  of  Evolution  would  have  taught 
Weismann  that  biological  problems  are  not  to  be  solved 
by  assaults  on  mice.  The  scientific  form  of  his  experi- 
ment would  have  been  something  like  this.  First,  he 
should  have  procured  a  colony  of  mice  highly  susceptible 
to  hypnotic  suggestion.  He  should  then  have  hypnotized 
them  into  an  urgent  conviction  that  the  fate  of  the 
musque  world  depended  on  the  disappearance  of  its  tail, 
just  as  some  ancient  and  forgotten  experimenter  seems 
to  have  convinced  the  cats  of  the  Isle  of  Man.  Having 
thus  made  the  mice  desire  to  lose  their  tails  with  a  life- 
or-death  intensity,  he  would  very  soon  have  seen  a  few 
mice  born  with  little  or  no  tail.  These  would  be  recog- 
nized by  the  other  mice  as  superior  beings,  and  privi- 
leged in  the  division  of  food  and  in  sexual  selection. 
Ultimately  the  tailed  mice  would  be  put  to  death  as 


Iviii  Back  to  Methuselah 

monsters  by  their  fellows,  and  the  miracle  of  the  tailless 
mouse  completely  achieved. 

The  objection  to  this  experiment  is  not  that  it  seems 
too  funny  to  be  taken  seriously,  and  is  not  cruel  enough 
to  overawe  the  mob,  but  simply  that  it  is  impossible 
because  the  human  experimenter  cannot  get  at  the 
mouse's  mind.  And  that  is  what  is  wrong  with  all  the 
barren  cruelties  of  the  laboratories.  Darwin's  followers 
did  not  think  of  this.  Their  only  idea  of  investigation 
was  to  imitate  "Nature"  by  perpetrating  violent  and 
senseless  cruelties,  and  watch  the  effect  of  them  with  a 
paralyzing  fatalism  which  forbade  the  smallest  effort  to 
use  their  minds  instead  of  their  knives  and  eyes,  and 
established  an  abominable  tradition  that  the  man  who 
hesitates  to  be  as  cruel  as  Circumstantial  Selection  itself 
is  a  traitor  to  science.  For  Weismann's  experiment 
upon  the  mice  was  a  mere  joke  compared  to  the  atrocities 
committed  by  other  Darwinians  in  their  attempts  to 
prove  that  mutilations  could  not  be  transmitted.  No 
doubt  the  worst  of  these  experiments  were  not  really 
experiments  at  all,  but  cruelties  committed  by  cruel  men 
who  were  attracted  to  the  laboratory  by  the  fact  that  it 
was  a  secret  refuge  left  by  law  and  public  superstition 
for  the  amateur  of  passionate  torture.  But  there  is  no 
reason  to  suspect  Weismann  of  Sadism.  Cutting  off  the 
tails  of  several  generations  of  mice  is  not  voluptuous 
enough  to  tempt  a  scientific  Nero.  It  was  a  mere  piece 
of  one-eyedness ;  and  it  was  Darwin  who  put  out  Weis- 
mann's humane  and  sensible  eye.  He  blinded  many 
another  eye  and  paralyzed  many  another  will  also.  Ever 
since  he  set  up  Circumstantial  Selection  as  the  creator 
and  ruler  of  the  universe,  the  scientific  world  has  been 
the  very  citadel  of  stupidity  and  cruelty.  Fearful  as 
the  tribal  god  of  the  Hebrews  was,  nobody  ever  shud- 
dered as  they  passed  even  his  meanest  and  narrowest 


Back  to  Methuselah  lix 

Little  Bethel  or  his  proudest  war-consecrating  cathedral 
as  we  shudder  now  when  we  pass  a  physiological  labora- 
tory. If  we  dreaded  and  mistrusted  the  priest,  we  could 
at  least  keep  him  out  of  the  house;  but  what  of  the 
modern  Darwinist  surgeon  whom  we  dread  and  mistrust 
ten  times  more,  but  into  whose  hands  we  must  all  give 
ourselves  from  time  to  time?  Miserably  as  religion  had 
been  debased,  it  did  at  least  still  proclaim  that  our  rela- 
tion to  one  another  was  that  of  a  fellowship  in  which  we 
were  all  equal  and  members  one  of  another  before  the  judg- 
ment-seat of  our  common  father.  Darwinism  proclaimed 
that  our  true  relation  is  that  of  competitors  and  com- 
batants in  a  struggle  for  mere  survival,  and  that  every 
act  of  pity  or  loyalty  to  the  old  fellowship  is  a  vain  and 
mischievous  attempt  to  lessen  the  severity  of  the 
struggle  and  preserve  inferior  varieties  from  the  efforts 
of  Nature  to  weed  them  out.  Even  in  Socialist  Societies 
which  existed  solely  to  substitute  the  law  of  fellowship 
for  the  law  of  competition,  and  the  method  of  providence 
and  wisdom  for  the  method  of  rushing  violently  down  a 
steep  place  into  the  sea,  I  found  myself  regarded  as  a 
blasphemer  and  an  ignorant  sentimentalist  because  when- 
ever the  Neo-Darwinian  doctrine  was  preached  there  I 
made  no  attempt  to  conceal  my  ijitellectual  contempt  for 
its  blind  coarseness  and  shallow  logic,  or  my  natural 
abhorrence  of  its  sickening  inhumanity. 

The  Greatest  of  These  is  Self-Control 

As  there  Is  no  place  in  Darwinism  for  free  will,  or  any 
other  sort  of  will,  the  Neo-Darwinists  held  that  there  is 
no  such  thing  as  self-control.  Yet  self-control  is  just 
the  one  quality  of  survival  value  which  Circumstantial 
Selection  must  invariably  and  inevitably  develop  in  the 
long  run.     Uncontrolled  qualities  may  be  selected  for 


Ix  Back  to  Methuselah 

survival  and  development  for  certain  periods  and  under 
certain  circumstances.  For  instance,  since  it  is  the  un- 
governable gluttons  who  strive  the  hardest  to  get  food 
and  drink,  their  efforts  would  develop  their  strength  and 
cunning  in  a  period  of  such  scarcity  that  the  utmost 
they  could  do  would  not  enable  them  to  over-eat  them- 
selves. But  a  change  of  circumstances  involving  a 
plentiful  supply  of  food  would  destroy  them.  We  see 
this  very  thing  happening  often  enough  in  the  case  of 
the  healthy  and  vigorous  poor  man  who  becomes  a  mil- 
lionaire by  one  of  the  accidents  of  our  competitive  com- 
merce, and  immediately  proceeds  to  dig  his  grave  with 
his  teeth.  But  the  self-controlled  man  survives  all  such 
changes  of  circumstance,  because  he  adapts  himself  to 
them,  and  eats  neither  as  much  as  he  can  hold  nor  as 
little  as  he  can  scrape  along  on,  but  as  much  as  is  good 
)  for  him.  What  is  self-control?  It  is  nothing  but  a 
i  highly  developed  vital  sense,  dominating  and  regulating 
the  mere  appetites.  To  overlook  the  very  existence  of 
this  supreme  sense ;  to  miss  the  obvious  inference  that  it 
4s  the  quality  that  distinguishes  the  fittest  to  survive; 
to  omit,  in  short,  the  highest  moral  claim  of  Evolu- 
tionary Selection :  all  this,  which  the  Neo-Darwinians  did 
in  the  name  of  Natural  Selection,  shewed  the  most 
pitiable  want  of  mastery  of  their  own  subject,  the  dull- 
est lack  of  observation  of  the  forces  upon  which  Natural 
Selection  works. 


A  Sample  of  Lamarcko- Shavian  Invective 

The  Vitalist  philosophers  made  no  such  mistakes. 
Nietzsche,  for  example,  thinking  out  the  great  central 
truth  of  the  Will  to  Power  instead  of  cutting  ofi^  mouse- 
tails,  had  no  difficulty  in  concluding  that  the  final  ob- 
jective of  this  Will  was  power  over  self,  and  that  the 


Back  to  Methuselah  Ixi 

seekers  after  power  over  others  and  material  possessions 
were  on  a  false  scent. 

The  stultification  naturally  became  much  worse  as  the 
first  Darwinians  died  out.  The  prestige  of  these 
pioneers,  who  had  the  older  evolutionary  culture  to  build 
on,  and  were  in  fact  no  more  Darwinian  in  the  modern 
sense  than  Darwin  himself,  ceased  to  dazzle  us  when 
Huxley  and  Tyndall  and  Spencer  and  Darwin  passed 
away,  and  we  were  left  with  the  smaller  people  who  began 
with  Darwin  and  took  in  nothing  else.  Accordingly,  I 
find  that  in  the  year  1906  I  indulged  my  temper  by 
hurling  invectives  at  the  Neo-Darwinians  in  the  follow- 
ing terms. 

"I  really  do  not  wish  to  be  abusive ;  but  when  I  think 
of  these  poor  little  dullards,  with  their  precarious  hold 
of  just  that  corner  of  evolution  that  a  blackbeetle  can 
understand — with  their  retinue  of  twopenny-halfpenny 
Torquemadas  wallowing  in  the  infamies  of  the  vivi- 
sector's  laboratory,  and  solemnly  offering  us  as  epoch- 
making  discoveries  their  demonstrations  that  dogs  get 
weaker  and  die  if  you  give  them  no  food;  that  intense 
pain  makes  mice  sweat ;  and  that  if  you  cut  off  a  dog's 
leg  the  three-legged  dog  will  have  a  four-legged  puppy, 
I  ask  myself  what  spell  has  fallen  on  intelligent  and 
humane  men  that  they  allow  themselves  to  be  imposed 
on  by  this  rabble  of  dolts,  blackguards,  imposters, 
quacks,  liars,  and,  worst  of  all,  credulous  conscientious 
fools.  Better  a  thousand  times  Moses  and  Spurgeon  [a 
then  famous  preacher]  back  again.  After  all,  you  can- 
not understand  Moses  without  imagination  nor  Spur- 
geon without  metaphysics ;  but  you  can  be  a  thorough- 
going Neo-Darwinian  without  imagination,  metaphysics, 
poetry,  conscience,  or  decency.  For  'Natural  Selection' 
has  no  moral  significance:  it  deals  with  that  part  of 
evolution   which  has   no  purpose,   no  intelligence,  and 


Ixii  Back  to  Methuselah 

might  more  appropriately  be  called  accidental  selection, 
or  Detter  still,  Unnatural  Selection,  since  nothing  is 
more  unnatural  than  an  accident.  If  it  could  be  proved 
that  the  whole  universe  had  been  produced  by  such 
Selection,  only  fools  and  rascals  could  bear  to  live," 


The  Humanitarians  and  the  Problem  of  Evil 

Yet  the  humanitarians  were  as  delighted  as  anybody 
with  Darwinism  at  first.  They  had  been  perplexed  by 
the  Problem  of  Evil  and  the  Cruelty  of  Nature.  They 
were  Shelleyans,  but  not  atheists.  Those  who  believed 
in  God  were  at  a  terrible  disadvantage  with  the  atheist. 
They  could  not  deny  the  existence  of  natural  facts  so 
cruel  that  to  attribute  them  to  the  will  of  God  is  to  make 
God  a  demon.  Belief  in  God  was  impossible  to  any 
thoughtful  person  without  belief  in  the  Devil  as  well. 
The  painted  Devil,  with  his  horns,  his  barbed  tail,  and 
his  abode  of  burning  brimstone,  was  an  incredible  bogey ; 
but  the  evil  attributed  to  him  was  real  enough ;  and  the 
atheists  argued  that  the  author  of  evil,  if  he  exists,  must 
be  strong  enough  to  overcome  God,  else  God  is  morally 
responsible  for  everything  he  permits  the  Devil  to  do. 
Neither  conclusion  delivered  us  from  the  horror  of 
attributing  the  cruelty  of  nature  to  the  workings  of  an 
evil  will,  or  could  reconcile  it  with  our  impulses  towards 
justice,  mercy,  and  a  higher  life. 

A  complete  deliverance  was  offered  by  the  discovery 
of  Circumstantial  Selection:  that  is  to  say,  of  a  method 
by  which  horrors  having  every  appearance  of  being 
elaborately  planned  by  some  intelligent  contriver  are 
only  accidents  without  any  moral  significance  at  all. 
Suppose  a  watcher  from  the  stars  saw  a  frightful  acci- 
dent produced  by  two  crowded  trains  at  full  speed 
crashing  into  one  another !    How  could  he  conceive  that 


Back  to  Methuselah  Ixiii 

a  catastrophe  brought  about  by  such  elaborate  ma- 
chinery, such  ingenious  preparation,  such  skilled  direc- 
tion, such  vigilant  industry,  was  quite  unintentional? 
Would  he  not  conclude  that  the  signal-men  were  devils? 

Well,  Circumstantial  Selection  is  largely  a  theory  of 
collisions:  that  is,  a  theory  of  the  innocence  of  much 
apparently  designed  devilry.  In  this  way  Darwin 
brought  intense  relief  as  well  as  an  enlarged  knowledge 
of  facts  to  the  humanitarians.  He  destroyed  the 
omnipotence  of  God  for  them;  but  he  also  exonerated 
God  from  a  hideous  charge  of  cruelty.  Granted  that 
the  comfort  was  shallow,  and  that  deeper  reflection  was 
bound  to  shew  that  worse  than  all  conceivable  devil- 
deities  is  a  blind,  deaf,  dumb,  heartless,  senseless  mob  of 
forces  that  strike  as  a  tree  does  when  it  is  blown  down 
by  the  wind,  or  as  the  tree  itself  is  struck  by  lightning. 
That  did  not  occur  to  the  humanitarians  at  the  moment : 
people  do  not  reflect  deeply  when  they  are  in  the  first 
happiness  of  escape  from  an  intolerably  oppressive 
situation.  Like  Bunyan's  pilgrim  they  could  not  see 
the  wicket  gate,  nor  the  Slough  of  Despond,  nor  the 
castle  of  Giant  Despair;  but  they  saw  the  shining  light 
at  the  end  of  the  path,  and  so  started  gaily  towards  it  as 
Evolutionists. 

And  they  were  right;  for  the  problem  of  evil  yields 
very  easily  to  Creative  Evolution.  If  the  driving  power 
behind  Evolution  is  omnipotent  only  in  the  sense  that 
there  seems  no  limit  to  its  final  achievement;  and  if  it 
must  meanwhile  struggle  with  matter  and  circumstance 
by  the  method  of  trial  and  error,  then  the  world  must  be 
full  of  its  unsuccessful  experiments.  Christ  may  meet 
a  tiger,  or  a  High  Priest  arm-in-arm  with  a  Roman 
Governor,  and  be  the  unfittest  to  survive  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. Mozart  may  have  a  genius  that  prevails 
against  Emperors   and  Archbishops,   and   a  lung  that 


Ixiv  Back  to  Methuselah 

succumbs  to  some  obscure  and  noxious  property  of  foul 
air.  If  all  our  calamities  are  either  accidents  or  sincerely 
repented  mistakes,  there  is  no  malice  in  the  Cruelty  of 
Nature  and  no  Problem  of  Evil  in  the  Victorian  sense 
at  all.  The  theology  of  the  women  who  told  us  that  they 
became  atheists  when  they  sat  by  the  cradles  of  their 
children  and  saw  them  strangled  by  the  hand  of  God  is 
succeeded  by  the  theology  of  Blanco  Posnet,  with  his 
'*It  was  early  days  when  He  made  the  croup,  I  guess. 
It  was  the  best  He  could  think  of  then;  but  when  it 
turned  out  wrong  on  His  hands  He  made  you  and  me 
to  fight  the  Croup  for  Him." 

How  One  Touch  of  Darwin  Makes  the 
Whole  World  Kin 

Another  humanitarian  interest  in  Darwinism  was  that 
Darwin  popularized  Evolution  generally,  as  well  as 
making  his  own  special  contribution  to  it.  Now  the 
general  conception  of  Evolution  provides  the  humani- 
tarian with  a  scientific  basis,  because  it  establishes  the 
fundamental  equality  of  all  living  things.  It  makes  the 
killing  of  an  animal  murder  in  exactly  the  same  sense 
as  the  killing  of  a  man  is  murder.  It  is  sometimes  neces- 
sary to  kill  men  as  it  is  always  necessary  to  kill  tigers ; 
but  the  old  theoretic  distinction  between  the  two  acts  has 
been  obliterated  by  Evolution.  When  I  was  a  child  and 
was  told  that  our  dog  and  our  parrot,  with  whom  I  was 
on  intimate  terms,  were  not  creatures  like  myself,  but 
were  brutal  whilst  I  was  reasonable,  I  not  only  did  not 
believe  it,  but  quite  consciously  and  intellectually  formed 
the  opinion  that  the  distinction  was  false ;  so  that  after- 
wards, when  Darwin's  views  were  first  unfolded  to  me,  I 
promptly  said  that  I  had  found  out  all  that  for  myself 
before  I  was  ten  years  old ;  and  I  am  far  from  sure  that 


Back  to  Methuselah  Ixv 

my  youthful  arrogance  was  not  justified;  for  this  sense 
of  the  kinship  of  all  forms  of  life  is  all  that  is  needed  to 
make  Evolution  not  only  a  conceivable  theory,  but  an 
inspiring  one.  St.  Anthony  was  ripe  for  the  Evolution 
theory  when  he  preached  to  the  fishes,  and  St.  Francis 
when  he  called  the  birds  his  little  brothers.  Our  vanity, 
and  our  snobbish  conception  of  Godhead  as  being,  like 
earthly  kingship,  a  supreme  class  distinction  instead  of 
the  rock  on  which  Equality  is  built,  had  led  us  to  insist 
on  God  offering  us  special  terms  by  placing  us  apart 
from  and  above  all  the  rest  of  his  creatures.  Evolution 
took  that  conceit  out  of  us;  and  now,  though  we  may 
kill  a  flea  without  the  smallest  remorse,  we  at  all  events 
know  that  we  are  killing  our  cousin.  No  doubt  it  shocks 
the  flea  when  the  creature  that  an  almighty  Celestial 
f'lea  created  expressly  for  the  food  of  fleas,  destroys  the 
jumping  lord  of  creation  with  his  sharp  and  enormous 
thumbnail ;  but  no  flea  will  ever  be  so  foolish  as  to  preach 
that  in  slaying  fleas  Man  is  applying  a  method  of 
Natural  Selection  which  will  finally  evolve  a  flea  so  swift 
that  no  man  can  catch  him,  and  so  hardy  of  constitution 
that  Insect  Powder  will  have  no  more  effect  on  him  than 
strychnine  on  an  elephant. 

Wliy  Darwin  Pleased  the  Socialists 

The  Humanitarians  were  not  alone  among  the  agi- 
tators in  their  welcome  to  Darwin.  He  had  the  luck  to 
please  everybody  who  had  an  axe  to  grind.  The  mili- 
tarists were  as  enthusiastic  as  the  Humanitarians,  the 
Socialists  as  the  Capitalists.  The  Socialists  were 
specially  encouraged  by  Darwin's  insistence  on  the  influ- 
ence of  environment.  Perhaps  the  strongest  moral 
bulwark  of  Capitalism  is  the  belief  in  the  efficacy  of 
individual  righteousness,    Robert  Owen  made  desperate 


Ixvi  Back  to  Methuselah 

efforts  to  convince  England  that  her  criminals,  her 
drunkards,  her  ignorant  and  stupid  masses,  were  the 
victims  of  circumstance :  that  if  we  would  only  establish 
his  new  moral  world  we  should  find  that  the  masses  born 
into  an  educated  and  moralized  community  would  be 
themselves  educated  and  moralized.  The  stock  reply  to 
this  is  to  be  found  in  Lewes's  Life  of  Goethe.  Lewes 
scorned  the  notion  that  circumstances  govern  character. 
He  pointed  to  the  variety  of  character  in  the  governing 
rich  class  to  prove  the  contrary.  Similarity  of  circum- 
stance can  hardly  be  carried  to  a  more  desolating  dead 
level  than  in  the  case  of  the  individuals  who  are  born  and 
bred  in  English  country  houses,  and  sent  first  to  Eton 
or  Harrow,  and  then  to  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  to  have 
their  minds  and  habits  formed.  Such  a  routine  would 
destroy  individuality  if  anything  could.  Yet  individ- 
uals come  out  from  it  as  different  as  Pitt  from  Fox,  as 
Lord  Russell  from  Lord  Curzon,  as  Mr.  Winston 
Churchill  from  Lord  Robert  Cecil.  This  acceptance  of 
the  congenital  character  of  the  individual  as  the  deter- 
mining factor  in  his  destiny  had  been  reinforced  by  the 
^Lamarckian  view  of  Evolution.  If  the  giraffe  can 
jdevelop  his  neck  by  wanting  and  trying,  a  man  can 
"  develop  his  character  in  the  same  way.  The  old  saying, 
j  "Where  there  is  a  will,  there  is  a  way,"  condenses 
\  Lamarck's  theory  of  functional  adaptation  into  a 
\proverb.  This  felt  bracingly  moral  to  strong  minds, 
and  reassuringly  pious  to  feeble  ones.  There  was  no 
more  effective  retort  to  the  Socialist  than  to  tell  him  to 
reform  himself  before  he  pretends  to  reform  society.  If 
you  were  rich,  how  pleasant  it  was  to  feel  that  you  owed 
your  riches  to  the  superiority  of  your  own  character! 
The  industrial  revolution  had  turned  numbers  of  greedy 
dullards  into  monstrously  rich  men.  Nothing  could  be 
more  humiliating  and   threatening  to   them   than   the 


Back  to  Methuselah  Ixvii 

view  that  the  falling  of  a  shower  of  gold  into  their 
pockets  was  as  pure  an  accident  of  our  industrial 
system  as  the  falling  of  a  shower  of  hail  on  their 
umbrellas.  Nothing  could  be  more  flattering  and  forti- 
fying to  them  than  the  assumption  that  they  were  rich 
because  they  were  virtuous. 

Now  Darwinism  made  a  clean  sweep  of  all  such  self- 
righteousness.  It  more  than  justified  Robert  Owen  by 
discovering  in  the  environment  of  an  organism  an  influ- 
ence on  it  more  patent  than  Owen  had  ever  claimed.  It 
implied  that  street  arabs  are  produced  by  slums  and  not 
by  original  sin :  that  prostitutes  are  produced  by  starva- 
tion wages  and  not  by  feminine  concupiscence.  It  threw 
the  authority  of  science  on  the  side  of  the  Socialist  who 
said  that  he  who  would  reform  himself  must  first  reform 
society.  It  suggested  that  if  we  want  healthy  and 
wealthy  citizens  we  must  have  healthy  and  wealthy 
towns;  and  that  these  can  exist  only  in  healthy  and 
wealthy  countries.  It  could  be  led  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  type  of  character  which  remains  indiff'erent  to 
the  welfare  of  its  neighbors  as  long  as  its  own  personal 
appetite  is  satisfied  is  the  disastrous  type,  and  the  type 
which  is  deeply  concerned  about  its  environment  the  only 
possible  type  for  a  permanently  prosperous  community. 
It  shewed  that  the  surprising  changes  which  Robert 
Owen  had  produced  in  factory  children  by  a  change  in 
their  circumstances  which  does  not  seem  any  too  gen- 
erous to  us  nowadays,  were  as  nothing  to  the  changes — 
changes  not  only  of  habits  but  of  species,  not  only  of 
species  but  of  orders — which  might  conceivably  be  the 
work  of  environment  acting  on  individuals  without  any 
character  or  intellectual  consciousness  whatever.  No 
wonder  the  Socialists  received  Darwin  with  open  arms. 


Ixviii  Back  to  Methuselah 

Darwin  and  Karl  Marx 

Besides,  the  Socialists  had  an  evolutionary  prophet  of 
their  own,  who  had  discredited  Manchester  as  Darwin 
discredited  the  Garden  of  Eden.  Karl  Marx  had  pro- 
claimed in  his  Communist  Manifesto  of  1848  (now 
enjoying  Scriptural  authority  in  Russia)  that  civiliza- 
tion is  an  organism  evolving  irresistibly  by  circum- 
stantial selection;  and  he  published  the  first  volume  of 
his  Das  Kapital  in  1867.  The  revolt  against  anthropo- 
.morphic  idolatry,  which  was,  as  we  have  seen,  the  secret 
/  of  Darwin's  success,  had  been  accompanied  by  a  revolt 
\  against  the  conventional  respectability  which  covered 
not  only  the  brigandage  and  piracy  of  the  feudal  barons, 
but  the  hypocrisy,  inhumanity,  snobbery,  and  greed  of^ 
the  bourgeoisie,  who  were  utterly  corrupted  by  an 
essentially  diabolical  identification  of  success  in  life  with 
I,  big  profits.  The  moment  Marx  shewed  that  the  relation 
of  the  bourgeoisie  to  society  was  grossly  immoral  and 
disastrous,  and  that  the  whited  wall  of  starched  shirt 
fronts  concealed  and  defended  the  most  infamous  of  all 
tyrannies  and  the  basest  of  all  robberies,  he  became  an 
inspired  prophet  in  the  mind  of  every  generous  soul 
whom  his  book  reached.  He  had  said  and  proved  what 
they  wanted  to  have  proved;  and  they  would  hear 
nothing  against  him.  Now  Marx  was  by  no  means 
infallible :  his  economics,  half  borrowed,  and  half  home- 
made by  a  literary  amateur,  were  not,  when  strictly  fol- 
lowed up,  even  favorable  to  Socialism.  His  theory  of 
civilization  had  been  promulgated  already  in  Buckle's 
History  of  Civilization,  a  book  as  epoch-making  in  the 
minds  of  its  readers  as  Das  Kapital.  There  was  nothing 
about  Socialism  in  the  widely  read  first  volume  of  Das 
Kapital:  every  reference  it  made  to  workers  and  capi- 
talists shewed  that  Marx  had  never  breathed  industrial 


Back  to  Methuselah  Ixix 

air,  and  had  dug  liis  case  out  of  bluebooks  in  the  British 
Museum.  Compared  to  Darwin,  he  seemed  to  have  no 
power  of  observation:  there  was  not  a  fact  in  Das 
Kapital  that  had  not  been  taken  out  of  a  book,  nor  a 
discussion  that  had  not  been  opened  by  somebody  else's 
pamphlet.  No  matter:  he  exposed  the  bourgeoisie  and 
made  an  end  of  its  moral  prestige.  That  was  enough: 
like  Darwin  he  had  for  the  moment  the  World  Will  by 
the  ear.  Marx  had,  too,  what  Darwin  had  not:  im- 
placability and  a  fine  Jewish  literary  gift,  with  terrible 
powers  of  hatred,  invective,  irony,  and  all  the  bitter 
qualities  bred,  first  in  the  oppression  of  a  rather  pam- 
pered young  genius  (Marx  was  the  spoilt  child  of  a 
well-to-do  family)  by  a  social  system  utterly  uncon- 
genial to  him,  and  later  on  b}^  exile  and  poverty.  Thus 
Marx  and  Darwin  between  them  toppled  over  two  closely 
related  idols,  and  became  the  prophets  of  two  new  creeds. 

Why  Darwin  Pleased  the  Profiteers  Also 

But  how,  at  this  rate,  did  Darwin  succeed  with  the 
capitalists  too?  It  is  not  easy  to  make  the  best  of  both 
worlds  when  one  of  the  worlds  is  preaching  a  Class  War, 
and  the  other  vigorously  practising  it.  The  explanation 
is  that  Darwinism  was  so  closely  related  to  Capitalism 
that  Marx  regarded  it  as  an  economic  product  rather 
than  as  a  biological  theory.  Darwin  got  his  main 
postulate,  the  pressure  of  population  on  tKe  available 
means  of  subsistence,  from  the  treatise  of  Malthus  on 
Population,  just  as  he  got  his  other  postulate  of  a 
practically  unlimited  time  for  that  j^ressure  to  operate 
from  the  geologist  LyeU,  who  made  an  end  of  Arch- 
bishop Ussher's  Biblical. estimate  of  the  age  of  the  earth 
as  4004  B.C.  plus  a.d.  The  treatises  of  the  Ricardlan 
economists  on  the  Law  of  Diminishing  Return,  which 


Ixx  Back  to  Methuselah 

was  only  the  Manchester  School's  version  of  the  giraffe 
and   the   trees,   were   all   very   fiercely    discussed   when 
Darwin  was  a  young  man.    In  fact  the  discovery  in  the 
eighteenth  century  by  the  French  Physiocrats   of  the 
economic  effects  of  Commercial  Selection  in  soils  and 
sites,  and  by  Malthus'of  a  competition  for  subsistence 
which  he  attributed  to  pressure  of  population  on  avail- 
able subsistence,  had  already  brought  political  science 
into  that  unbreathable  atmosphere  of  fatalism  which  is 
the  characteristic  blight  of  Darwinism.     Long  before 
Darwin  published  a  line,  the  Ricardo-Malthusian  econo- 
mists were  preaching  the  fatalistic  Wages  Fund  doc- 
trine, and  assuring  the  workers  that  Trade  Unionism  is 
a    vain    defiance    of   the    inexorable   laws    of   political 
economy,  just  as  the   Neo-Darwinians   were  presently 
assuring  us  that  Temperance  Legislation  is  a  vain  de- 
fiance of  Natural  Selection,  and  that  the  true  wa}^  to 
deal  with  drunkenness  is  to  flood  the  country  with  cheap 
gin  and  let  the  fittest  survive.     Cobdenism  is,  after  all, 
nothing  but  the  abandonment  of  trade  to  Circumstantial 
Selection. 
(^    It  is  hardly  possible  to  exaggerate  the  importance  of 
(  this  preparation  for  Darwinism  by  a  vast  political  and 
\  clerical  propaganda  of  its  moral  atmosphere.     Never  in 
\  history,  as  far  as  we  know,  had  there  been  such  a  deter- 
\  mined,  richly  subsidized,  politically  organized  attempt 
Sto   persuade   the   human   race   that    all    progress,    all 
yprosperity,  all  salvation,  individual  and  social,  depend 
/on  an  unrestrained  conflict  for  food  and  money,  on  the 
[  suppression  and  elimination  of  the  weak  by  the  strong, 
on  Free  Trade,  Free  Contract,  Free  Competition,  Nat- 
\  ural  Liberty,  Laisser-f aire :  in   short,   on  "doing  the 
other  fellow  down"  with  impunity,  all  interference  by  a 
guiding    government,    all    organization    except    police 
I  organization  to  protect  legalized  fraud  against  fisticuffs, 


Back  to  Methuselah  Ixxi 

all  attempt  to  introduce  human  purpose  and  design  and 
forethought  into  the  industrial  welter  being  "contrary 
to  the  laws  of  political  economy."  Even  the  proletariat 
sympathized,  though  to  them  Capitalist  liberty  meant 
only  wage  slavery  without  the  legal  safeguards  of 
chattel  slavery.  People  were  tired  of  governments  and 
kings  and  priests  and  providences,  and  wanted  to  find 
out  how  Nature  would  arrange  matters  if  she  were  let 
alone.  And  they  found  it  out  to  their  cost  in  the  days 
when  Lancashire  used  up  nine  generations  of  wage  slaves 
in  one  generation  of  their  masters.  But  their  masters, 
becoming  richer  and  richer,  were  very  well  satisfied ;  and 
Bastiat  proved  convincingly  that  Nature  had  arranged 
Economic  Harmonies  which  would  settle  social  questions 
far  better  than  theocracies  or  aristocracies  or  mobo- 
cracies,  the  real  deus  ex  machvna  being  unrestrained 
plutocracy. 

The  Poetry  and  Purity  of  Materialism 

Thus  the  stars  in  their  courses  fought  for  Darwin. 
Every  faction  drew  a  moral  from  him;  every  catholic 
hater  of  faction  founded  a  hope  on  him ;  every  black- 
guard felt  justified  by  him;  and  every  saint  felt  en- 
couraged by  him.  The  notion  that  any  harm  could 
come  of  so  splendid  an  enlightenment  seemed  as  silly  as 
the  notion  that  the  atheists  would  steal  all  our  spoons. 
The  physicists  went  further  than  the  Darwinians. 
Tyndall  declared  that  he  saw  in  Matter  the  promise 
and  potency  of  all  forms  of  life,  and  with  his  Irish 
graphic  lucidity  made  a  picture  of  a  world  of  magnetic 
atoms,  each  atom  with  a  positive  and  a  negative  pole, 
arranging  itself  by  attraction  and  repulsion  in  orderly 
crystalline  structure.  Such  a  picture  is  dangerously 
fascinating  to  thinkers   oppressed  ^y   the  bloody  dis- 


Ixxii  Back  to  Methuselah 

orders  of  the  living  world.  Craving  for  purer  subjects 
of  thought,  they  find  in  the  contemplation  of  crystals 
and  magnets  a  happiness  more  dramatic  and  less  childish 
than  the  happiness  found  by  the  mathematicians  in 
abstract  numbers,  because  they  see  in  the  crystals  beauty 
and  movement  without  the  corrupting  appetites  of 
fleshly  vitality.  In  such  Materialism  as  that  of 
Lucretius  and  Tyndall  there  is  a  nobility  which  produces 
poetry :  John  Davidson  found  his  highest  inspiration  in  it. 
Even  its  pessimism  as  it  faces  the  cooling  of  the  sun  and 
the  return  of  the  ice  caps  does  not  degrade  the  pessimist : 
for  example,  the  Quincy  Adamses,  with  their  insistence 
on  modern  democratic  degradation  as  an  inevitable 
result  of  solar  shrinkage,  are  not  dehumanized  as  the 
vivisectionists  are.  Perhaps  nobody  is  at  heart  fool 
enough  to  believe  that  life  is  at  the  mercy  of  tempera- 
ture: Dante  was  not  troubled  by  the  objection  that 
Brunetto  could  not  have  lived  in  the  fire  nor  Ugolino  in 
the  ice. 

But  the  pliysicists  found  their  intellectual  vision  of 
the  world  incommunicable  to  those  who  were  not  born 
"with  it.  It  came  to  the  public  simply  as  Materialism; 
and  Materialism  lost  its  peculiar  purity  and  dignity 
when  it  entered  into  the  Darwinian  reaction  against 
Bible  fetichism.  Between  the  two  of  them  religion  was 
knocked  to  pieces;  and  where  there  had  been  a  god,  a 
cause,  a  faith  that  the  universe  was  ordered  however 
inexplicable  by  us  its  order  might  be,  and  therefore  a 
sense  of  moral  responsibility  as  part  of  that  order,  there 
was  now  an  utter  void.  Chaos  had  come  again.  The 
first  effect  was  exhilarating:  we  had  the  runaway  child's 
sense  of  freedom  before  it  gets  hungry  and  lonely  and 
frightened.  In  this  phase  we  did  not  desire  our  God 
back  again.  We  printed  the  verses  in  which  William 
Blake,  the  most  religious  of  our  great  poets,  called  the 


Back  to  Methuselah  Ixxiii 

anthropomorphic  idol  Old  Nobodaddy,  and  gibed  at  him 
in  terms  which  the  printer  had  to  leave  us  to  guess  from 
his  blank  spaces.  We  had  heard  the  parson  droning  that 
God  is  not  mocked;  and  it  was  great  fun  to  mock  Him 
to  our  hearts'  content  and  not  be  a  penny  the  worse.  It 
did  not  occur  to  us  that  Old  Nobodaddy,  instead  of 
being  a  ridiculous  fiction,  might  be  only  an  imposter,  and 
that  the  exposure  of  this  Koepenik  Captain  of  the 
heavens,  far  from  proving  that  there  was  no  real  cap- 
tain, rather  proved  the  contrary:  that,  in  short,  Nobo- 
daddy could  not  have  impersonated  anybody  if  there 
had  not  been  Somebodaddy  to  impersonate.  We  did  not 
see  the  significance  of  the  fact  that  on  the  last  occasion 
on  which  God  had  been  "expelled  with  a  pitchfork,"  men 
so  difi*erent  as  Voltaire  and  Robespierre  had  said,  the  one 
that  if  God  did  not  exist  it  would  be  necessary  to  invent 
him,  and  the  other  that  after  an  honest  attempt  to  dis- 
pense with  a  Supreme  Being  in  practical  politics,  some 
such  hypothesis  had  been  found  quite  indispensable,  and 
could  not  be  replaced  by  a  mere  Goddess  of  Reason.  If 
these  two  opinions  were  quoted  at  all,  they  were  quoted 
as  jokes  at  the  expense  of  Nobodaddy.  We  were  quite 
sure  for  the  moment  that  whatever  lingering  super- 
stition might  have  daunted  these  men  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  we  Darwinians  could  do  without  God,  and  had 
made  a  good  riddance  of  him. 

The  Viceroys  of  the  King  of  Kings 

Now  in  politics  it  is  much  easier  to  do  without  God 
than  to  do  without  his  viceroys  and  vicars  and  lieu- 
tenants ;  and  we  begin  to  miss  the  lieutenants  long  before 
we  begin  to  miss  their  principal.  Roman  Catholics  do 
what  their  confessors  advise  without  troubling  God ;  and 
Royalists  are  content  to  worship  the  King  and  ask  the 


Ixxiv  Back  to  Methuselah 

policeman.  But  God's  trustiest  lieutenants  often  lack 
official  credentials.  They  may  be  professed  atheists  who 
are  also  men  of  honor  and  high  public  spirit.  The  old 
belief  that  it  matters  dreadfully  to  God  whether  a  man 
thinks  himself  an  atheist  or  not,  and  that  the  extent  to 
which  it  matters  can  be  stated  with  exactness  as  one 
single  damn,  was  an  error;  for  the  divinity  is  in  the 
honor  and  public  spirit,  not  in  the  mouthed  credo  or  non 
credo.  The  consequences  of  this  error  became  grave 
when  the  fitness  of  a  man  for  public  trust  was  tested, 
not  by  his  honor  and  public  spirit,  but  by  asking  him 
whether  he  believed  in  Nobodaddy  or  not.  If  he  said 
yes,  he  was  held  fit  to  be  a  Prime  Minister,  though,  as 
our  ablest  Churchman  has  said,  the  real  implication  was 
1  that  he  was  either  a  fool,  a  bigot,  or  a  liar.  Darwin 
V destroyed  this  test;  but  when  it  was  only  thoughtlessly 
\  dropped,  there  was  no  test  at  all ;  and  the  door  to  public 
trust  was  open  to  the  man  who  had  no  sense  of  God 
because  he  had  no  sense  of  anything  beyond  his  own 
business  interests  and  personal  appetites  and  ambitions. 
As  a  result,  the  people  who  did  not  feel  in  the  least  in- 
convenienced by  being  no  longer  governed  by  Nobodaddy 
soon  found  themselves  very  acutely  inconvenienced  by 
being  governed  by  fools  and  commercial  adventurers. 
They  had  forgotten  not  only  God  but  Goldsmith,  who 
had  warned  them  that  "honor  sinks  where  commerce  long 
prevails." 

The  lieutenants  of  God  are  not  always  persons :  some 
of  them  are  legal  and  parliamentary  fictions.  One  of 
them  is  Public  Opinion.  The  pre-Darwinian  statesmen 
and  publicists  were  not  restrained  directly  by  God ;  but 
they  restrained  themselves  by  setting  up  an  image  of  a 
Public  Opinion  which  would  not  tolerate  any  attempt  to 
tamper  with  British  liberties.  Their  favorite  way  of 
putting  it  was  that  any  Government  which  proposed 


Back  to  Methuselah  Ixxv 

such  and  such  an  infringement  of  such  and  such  a  Brit- 
ish Hberty  would  be  hurled  from  office  in  a  week.  This 
was  not  true: there  was  no  such  public  opinion,  no  limit 
to  what  the  British  people  would  put  up  with  in  the 
abstract,  and  no  hardship  short  of  immediate  and  sud- 
den starvation  that  it  would  not  and  did  not  put  up 
with  in  the  concrete.  But  this  very  helplessness  of  the 
people  had  forced  their  rulers  to  pretend  that  they  were 
not  helpless,  and  that  the  certainty  of  a  sturdy  and  un- 
conquerable popular  resistance  forbade  any  trifling  with 
Magna  Carta  or  the  Petition  of  Rights  or  the  authority 
of  parliament.  Now  the  reality  behind  this  fiction  was 
the  divine  sense  that  liberty  is  a  need  vital  to  human 
growth.  Accordingly,  though  it  was  difficult  enough  to 
eff^ect  a  political  reform,  yet,  once  parliament  had  passed 
it,  its  wildest  opponent  had  no  hope  that  the  Govern- 
ment would  cancel  it,  or  shelve  it,  or  be  bought  off  from 
executing  it.  From  Walpole  to  Campbell  Bannerman 
there  was  no  Prime  Minister  to  whom  such  renagueing 
or  trafficking  would  ever  have  occurred,  though  there 
were  plenty  who  employed  corruption  unsparingly  to 
procure  the  votes  of  members  of  parliament  for  their 
policy. 

Political  Opportunism  in  Excelsis 
The  moment  Nobodaddy  was  slain  by  Darwin,  Public 
Opinion,  as  divine  deputy,  lost  its  sanctity.  Politicians 
no  longer  told  themselves  that  the  British  public  would 
never  suff^er  this  or  that:  they  allowed  themselves  to 
know  that  for  their  own  personal  purposes,  which  are 
limited  to  their  ten  or  twenty  years  on  the  front  benches 
in  parliament,  the  British  Public  can  be  humbugged  and 
coerced  into  believing  and  suffering  everything  that  it 
pays  to  impose  on  them,  and  that  any  false  excuse  for 
an  unpopular  step  will  serve  if  it  can  be  kept  in  coun- 


Ixxvi  Back  to  Methuselah 

tenance  for  a  fortnight:  that  is,  until  the  terms  of  the 
excuse  are  forgotten.  The  people,  untaught  or  mis- 
taught,  are  so  ignorant  and  incapable  politically  that 
this  in  itself  would  not  greatly  matter ;  for  a  statesman 
who  told  them  the  truth  would  not  be  understood,  and 
would  in  effect  mislead  them  more  completely  than  if  he 
dealt  with  them  according  to  their  blindness  instead  of 
to  his  own  wisdom.  But  though  there  is  no  difference 
in  this  respect  between  the  best  demagogue  and  the 
worst,  both  of  them  having  to  present  their  cases  equally 
in  terms  of  melo-drama,  there  is  all  the  difference  in 
the  world  between  the  statesman  who  is  humbugging  the 
people  into  allowing  him  to  do  the  will  of  God,  in  what- 
ever disguise  it  may  come  to  him,  and  one  who  is  hum- 
bugging them  into  furthering  his  personal  ambition  and 
the  commercial  interests  of  the  plutocrats  who  own  the 
newspapers  and  support  him  on  reciprocal  terms.  And 
there  is  almost  as  great  a  difference  between  the  states- 
man who  does  this  naively  and  automatically,  or  even 
does  it  telling  himself  that  he  is  ambitious  and  selfish 
and  unscrupulous,  and  the  one  who  does  it  on  principle, 
believing  that  if  everyone  takes  the  line  of  least  mate- 
rial resistance  the  result  will  be  the  survival  of  the  fittest 
in  a  perfectly  harmonious  universe.  Once  produce  an 
atmosphere  of  fatalism  on  principle,  and  it  matters  little 
what  the  opinions  or  superstitions  of  the  individual 
statesmen  concerned  may  be.  A  Kaiser  who  is  a  devout 
reader  of  sermons,  a  Prime  Minister  who  is  an  emotional 
singer  of  hymns,  and  a  General  who  is  a  bigoted  Roman 
Catholic  may  be  the  executants  of  the  policy;  but  the 
policy  itself  will  be  one  of  unprincipled  opportunism; 
and  all  the  Governments  will  be  like  the  tramp  who  walks 
always  with  the  wind  and  ends  as  a  pauper,  or  the  stone 
that  rolls  down  the  hill  and  ends  as  an  avalanche :  their 
way  is  the  way  to  destruction. 


Back  to  Methuselah  Ixxvii 

The  Betrayal  of  Western  Civilization 

Within  sixty  years  from  the  publication  of  Darwin's 
Origin  of  Species  political  opportunism  had  brought 
parliaments  into  contempt ;  created  a  popular  demand  for 
direct  action  by  the  organized  industries  ("Syndical- 
ism" )  ;  and  wrecked  the  centre  of  Europe  in  a  paroxysm 
of  that  chronic  terror  of  one  another,  that  cowardice  of 
the  irreligious,  which,  masked  in  the  bravado  of  mil- 
itarist patriotism,  had  ridden  the  Powers  like  a  night- 
mare since  the  Franco-Prussian  war  of  1870-71.  The 
sturdy  old  cosmopolitan  Liberalism  vanished  almost  un- 
noticed. At  the  present  moment  all  the  new  ordinances 
for  the  government  of  our  Crown  Colonies  contain,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  prohibitions  of  all  criticism,  spoken 
or  written,  of  their  ruling  officials,  which  would  have 
scandalized  George  III  and  elicited  Liberal  pamphlets 
from  Catherine  IT.  Statesmen  are  afraid  of  the  suburbs, 
of  the  newspapers,  of  the  profiteers,  of  the  diplomatists, 
of  the  militarists,  of  the  country  houses,  of  the  trade 
unions,  of  everything  ephemeral  on  earth  except  the 
revolutions  they  are  provoking;  and  they  would  be 
afraid  of  these  if  they  were  not  too  ignorant  of  society 
and  history  to  appreciate  the  risk,  and  to  know  that  a 
revolution  always  seems  hopeless  and  impossible  the  day 
before  it  breaks  out,  and  indeed  never  does  break  out 
until  it  seems  hopeless  and  impossible;  for  rulers  who 
think  it  possible  take  care  to  insure  the  risk  by  ruling 
reasonably.  This  brings  about  a  condition  fatal  to  all 
political  stability:  namely,  that  you  never  know  where 
to  have  the  politicians.  If  the  fear  of  God  was  in  them 
it  might  be  possible  to  come  to  some  general  understand- 
ing as  to  what  Grod  disapproves  of;  and  Europe  might 
pull  together  on  that  basis.  But  the  present  panic, 
in  which  Prime  Ministers  drift  from  election  to  election. 


Ixxviii  Back  to  Methuselah 

either  fighting  or  running  away  from  everybody  who 
shakes  a  fist  at  them,  makes  a  European  civilization  im- 
possible. Such  peace  and  prosperity  as  we  enjoyed 
before  the  war  depended  on  the  loyalty  of  the  Western 
States  to  their  own  civilization.  That  loyalty  could  find 
practical  expression  only  in  an  alliance  of  the  highly 
civilized  Western  Powers  against  the  primitive  tyrannies 
of  the  East.  Britain,  Germany,  France,  and  the  United 
States  of  America  could  have  imposed  peace  on  the 
world,  and  nursed  modern  civilization  in  Russia,  Turkey, 
and  the  Balkans.  Every  meaner  consideration  s-hould 
have  given  way  to  this  need  for  the  solidarity  of  the 
higher  civilization.  What  actually  happened  was  that 
France  and  England,  through  their  clerks  the  diplomat- 
ists, made  an  alliance  with  Russia  to  defend  themselves 
against  Germany;  Germany  made  an  alliance  with 
Turkey  to  defend  herself  against  the  three ;  and  the  two 
unnatural  and  suicidal  combinations  fell  on  one  another 
in  a  war  that  came  nearer  to  being  a  war  of  extermina- 
tion than  any  wars  since  those  of  Timur  the  Tartar; 
whilst  the  United  States  held  aloof  as  long  as  they  could, 
and  the  other  States  either  did  the  same  or  joined  in  the 
fray  through  compulsion,  bribery,  or  their  judgment 
as  to  which  side  their  bread  was  buttered.  And  at  the 
present  moment,  though  the  main  fighting  has  ceased 
through  the  surrender  of  Germany  on  terms  which  the 
victors  have  never  dreamt  of  observing,  the  extermina- 
tion by  blockade  and  famine,  which  was  what  forced 
Germany  to  surrender,  still  continues,  although  it  is 
certain  that  if  the  vanquished  starve  the  victors  will 
starve  too,  and  Europe  will  liquidate  its  affairs  by  going, 
not  into  bankruptcy,  but  into  chaos. 

Now  all  this  it  will  be  noticed,  was  fundamentally 
nothing  but  an  idiotic  attempt  on  the  part  of  each  bel- 
ligerent State  to  secure  for  itself  the  advantage  of  the 


Back  to  Methuselah  Ixxix 

iurvival  of  the  fittest  through  Circumstantial  Selection. 
If  the  Western  Powers  had  selected  their  allies  in  the 
Lamarckian  manner  intelligently,  purposely  ,and  vitally, 
ad  majorem  Dei  gloriam,  as  what  Nietzsche  called  good 
Europeans,  there  would  have  been  a  League  of  Nations 
and  no  war.  But  because  the  selection  relied  on  was 
purely  circumstantial  opportunist  selection,  so  that  the 
alliances  were  mere  marriages  of  convenience,  they  have 
turned  out,  not  merely  as  badly  as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected, but  far  worse  than  the  blackest  pessimist  had 
ever  imagined  possible. 

Circumstantial  Selection  in  Finance 

How  it  will  all  end  we  do  not  yet  know.  When  wolves 
combine  to  kill  a  horse,  the  death  of  the  horse  only  sets 
them  fighting  one  another  for  the  choicest  morsels.  Men 
are  no  better  than  wolves  if  they  have  no  better  princi- 
ples: accordingly,  we  find  that  the  Armistice  and  the 
Treaty  have  not  extricated  us  from  the  war.  A  hand- 
ful of  Serbian  assassins  flung  us  into  it  as  a  sporting 
navvy  throws  a  bull  pup  at  a  cat;  but  the  Supreme 
Council,  with  all  its  victorious  legions  and  all  its  pres- 
tige, cannot  get  us  out  of  it,  though  we  are  heartily  sick 
and  tired  of  the  whole  business,  and  know  now  very  well 
that  it  should  never  have  been  allowed  to  happen.  But 
we  are  helpless  before  a  slate  scrawled  with  figures  of 
National  Debts.  As  there  is  no  money  to  pay  them  be- 
cause it  was  all  spent  on  the  war  (wars  have  to  be  paid 
for  on  the  nail)  the  sensible  thing  to  do  is  to  wipe  the 
slate  and  let  the  wrangling  States  distribute  what  they 
can  spare,  on  the  sound  communist  principle  of  from 
each  according  to  his  ability,  to  each  according  to  his 
need.  But  no :  we  have  no  principles  left,  not  even  com- 
mercial ones ;  for  what  sane  commerciallst  would  decree 


Ixxx  Back  to  Methuselah 

that  France  must  not  pay  for  her  failure  to  defend  her 
own  soil;  that  Germany  must  pay  for  her  success  in 
carrying  the  war  into  the  enemy's  country ;  and  that  as 
Germany  has  not  the  money  to  pay,  and  under  our  com- 
mercial system  can  make  it  only  by  becoming  once  more 
a  commercial  competitor  of  England  and  France,  which 
neither  of  them  will  allow,  she  must  borrow  the  money 
from  England,  or  America,  or  even  from  France:  an 
arrangement  by  which  the  victorious  creditors  will  pay 
one  another,  and  wait  to  get  their  money  back  until 
Germany  is  either  strong  enough  to  refuse  to  pay  or 
ruined  beyond  the  possibility  of  paying?  Meanwhile 
Russia,  reduced  to  a  scrap  of  fish  and  a  pint  of  cabbage 
soup  a  day,  has  fallen  into  the  hands  of  rulers  who  per- 
ceive that  Materialist  Communism  is  at  all  events  more 
effective  than  Materialist  Nihilism,  and  are  attempting 
to  move  in  an  intelligent  and  ordered  manner,  practising 
a  very  strenuous  Intentional  Selection  of  workers  as 
fitter  to  survive  than  idlers ;  whilst  the  Western  Powers 
are  drifting  and  colliding  and  running  on  the  rocks,  in 
the  hope  that  if  they  continue  to  do  their  worst  they  will 
get  Naturally  Selected  for  survival  without  the  trouble 
of  thinking  about  it. 

The  Homeopathic  Reaction  Against  Darwinism 

When,  like  the  Russians  our  Nihilists  have  it  urgently 
borne  in  on  them,  by  the  brute  force  of  rising  wages  that 
never  overtake  rising  prices,  that  they  are  being  Nat- 
urally Selected  for  destruction,  they  will  perhaps  remem- 
ber that  "Dont  Care  came  to  a  bad  end,"  and  begin  to 
look  round  for  a  religion.  And  the  whole  purpose  of 
this  book  is  to  shew  them  where  to  look.  For,  through- 
out all  the  godless  welter  of  the  infidel  half-century, 
Darwinism  has  been  acting  not  only  directly  but  homeo- 


Back  to  Methuselah  Ixxxi 

pathically,  its  poison  rallying  our  vital  forces  not  only 
to  resist  it  and  cast  it  out,  but  to  achieve  a  new  Reforma- 
tion and  put  a  credible  and  healthy  religion  in  its  place. 
Samuel  Butler  was  the  pioneer  of  the  reaction  as  far  as 
the  casting  out  was  concerned;  but  the  issue  was  con- 
fused by  the  physiologists,  who  were  divided  on  the  ques- 
tion into  Mechanists  and  Vitalists.  The  Mechanists  said 
that  life  is  nothing  but  physical  and  chemical  action; 
that  they  have  demonstrated  this  in  many  cases  of  so- 
called  vital  phenomena;  and  that  there  is  no  reason  to 
doubt  that  with  improved  methods  they  will  presently  be 
able  to  demonstrate  it  in  all  of  them.  The  Vitalists  said 
that  a  dead  body  and  a  live  one  are  physically  and  chem- 
ically identical,  and  that  the  difference  can  be  accounted 
for  only  by  the  existence  of  a  Vital  Force.^  This  seems 
simple ;  but  the  Anti-Mechanists  objected  to  be  called  Vi- 
talists (obviously  the  right  name  for  them)  on  two  con- 
tradictory grounds.  First,  that  vitality  is  scientifically 
inadmissible,  because  it  cannot  be  isolated  and  experi-  ^ 
mented  with  in  the  laboratory.  Second,  that  force,  being  £ 
by  definition  anything  that  can  alter  the  speed  or  direc- 
tion, of  matter  in  motion  (briefly,  that  can  overcome 
inertia),  is  essentially  a  mechanistic  conception.  Here 
we  had  the  New  Vitalist  only  half  extricated  from  the 
Old  Mechanist,  obj  ecting  to  be  called  either,  and  unable 
to  give  a  clear  lead  in  the  new  direction.  And  there  was 
a  deeper  antagonism.  The  Old  Vitalists,  in  postulating 
a  Vital  Force,  were  setting  up  a  comparatively  mechani- 
cal conception  as  against  the  divine  idea  of  the  life 
breathed  into  the  clay  nostrils  of  Adam,  whereby  he  be- 
came a  living  soul.  The  New  Vitalists,  filled  by  their 
laboratory  researches  with  a  sense  of  the  miraculousness 
of  life  that  went  far  beyond  the  comparatively  unin- 
formed imaginations  of  the  authors  of  the  Book  of  Gene- 
sis, regarded  the  Old  Vitalists  as  Mechanists  who  had 


Ixxxii  Back  to  Methuselah 

tried  to  fill  up  the  gulf  between  life  and  death  with  an 
empty  phrase  denoting  an  imaginary  physical  force. 

These  professional  faction  fights  are  ephemeral,  and 
need  not  trouble  us  here.  The  Old  Vitalist,  who  was 
essentially  a  Materialist,  has  evolved  into  the  New  Vital- 
ist, who  is,  as  every  genuine  scientist  must  be,  finally  a 
metaphysician.  And  as  the  New  Vitalist  turns  from  the 
disputes  of  his  youth  to  the  future  of  his  science,  he  will 
cease  to  boggle  at  the  name  Vitalist,  or  at  the  inevitable, 
ancient,  popular,  and  quite  correct  use  of  the  term  Force 
to  denote  metaphysical  as  well  as  physical  overcomers  of 
inertia. 

Since  the  discovery  of  Evolution  as  the  method  of  the 
Life  Force,  th^^eli^ion  of  metaphysical^  has 

been  gaining  the  definiteness  and  concreteness  needed  to 
make  it  assimilable  by  the  educated  critical  man.  But 
it  has  always  been  with  us.  The  popular  religions,  dis- 
graced by  their  Opportunist  cardinals  and  bishops,  have 
been  kept  in  credit  by  canonized  saints  whose  secret  was 
their  conception  of  themselves  as  the  instruments  and 
vehicles  of  divine  power  and  aspiration:  a  conception 
which  at  moments  becomes  an  actual  experience  of 
ecstatic  possession  by  that  power.  And  above  and  below 
all  have  been  millions  of  humble  and  obscure  persons, 
sometimes  totally  illiterate,  sometimes  unconscious  of 
having  any  religion  at  all,  sometimes  believing  in  their 
simplicity  that  the  gods  and  temples  and  priests  of  their 
district  stood  for  their  instinctive  righteousness,  who 
have  kept  sweet  the  tradition  that  good  people  follow 
a  light  that  shines  within  and  above  and  ahead  of  them, 
that  bad  people  care  only  for  themselves,  and  that  the 
good  are  saved  and  blessed  and  the  bad  damned  and 
miserable.  Protestantism  was  a  movement  towards  the 
pursuit  of  a  light  called  an  inner  light  because  every 
man  must  see  it  with  his  own  eyes  and  not  take  any 


Back  to  Methuselah  Ixxxiii 

priest's  words  for  it  or  any  Church's  account  of  it.  In 
short,  there  is  no  question  of  a  new  religion,  but  rather 
of  redistilling  the  eternal  spirit  of  religion  and  thus  ex- 
tricating it  from  the  sludgy  residue  of  temporalities  and 
legends  that  are  making  belief  impossible,  though  they 
are  the  stock-in-trade  of  all  the  Churches  and  all  the 
Schools. 


Religion  and  Romance 

It  is  the  adulteration  of  religion  by  the  romance  of 
miracles  and  paradises  and  torture  chambers  that  makes 
it  reel  at  the  impact  of  every  advance  in  science,  instead 
of  being  clarified  by  it.  If  you  take  an  English  village 
lad,  and  teach  him  that  religion  means  believing  that  the 
stories  of  Noah's  Ark  and  the  Garden  of  Eden  are  liter- 
ally true  on  the  authority  of  God  himself,  and  if  that 
boy  becomes  an  artisan  and  goes  into  the  town  among 
the  sceptical  city  proletariat,  then,  when  the  jibes  of  his 
mates  set  him  thinking,  and  he  sees  that  these  stories 
cannot  be  literally  true,  and  learns  that  no  candid  pre- 
late now  pretends  to  believe  them,  he  does  not  make  any 
fine  distinctions:  he  declares  at  once  that  religion  is  a 
fraud,  and  parsons  and  teachers  hypocrites  and  liars. 
He  becomes  indifferent  to  religion  if  he  has  little  con- 
science, and  indignantly  hostile  to  it  if  he  has  a  good 
deal. 

The  same  revolt  against  wantonly  false  teaching  is 
happening  daily  in  the  professional  classes  whose  recrea- 
tion is  reading  and  whose  intellectual  sport  is  contro- 
versy. They  banish  the  Bible  from  their  houses,  and 
sometimes  put  into  the  hands  of  their  unfortunate  chil- 
dren Ethical  and  Rationalist  tracts  of  the  deadliest  dull- 
ness, compelling  these  wretched  infants  to  sit  out  the 
discourses  of  Secularist  lecturers  (I  have  delivered  some 


Ixxxiv  Back  to  Methuselah 

of  them  myself),  who  hore  them  at  a  length  now  for- 
bidden by  custom  in  the  established  pulpit.  Our  minds 
have  reacted  so  violently  towards  provable  logical  theo- 
rems and  demonstrable  mechanical  or  chemical  facts  that 
we  have  become  incapable  of  metaphysical  truth,  and 
try  to  cast  out  incredible  and  silly  lies  by  credible  and 
clever  ones,  calling  in  Satan  to  cast  out  Satan,  and 
getting  more  into  his  clutches  than  ever  in  the  process. 
Thus  the  world  is  kept  sane  less  by  the  saints  than  by 
the  vast  mass  of  the  indifferent,  who  neither  act  nor 
react  in  the  matter.  Butler's  preaching  of  the  gospel 
of  Laoddica  was  a  piece  of  common  sense  founded  on 
his  observation  of  this. 

But  indifference  will  not  guide  nations  through  civili- 
zation to  the  establishment  of  the  perfect  city  of  God. 
An  indifferent  statesman  is  a  contradiction  in  terms; 
and  a  statesman  who  is  indifferent  on  principle,  a  Lais- 
ser-faire  or  Muddle-Through  doctrinaire,  plays  the  deuce 
with  us  in  the  long  run.  Our  statesmen  must  get  a 
religion  by  hook  or  crook;  and  as  we  are  committed  to. 
Adult  Suffrage  it  must  be  a  religion  capable  of  vulgari- 
zation. The  thought  first  put  into  words  by  the  Mills 
when  they  said  "There  is  no  God;  but  this  is  a  family 
secret,"  and  long  held  unspoken  by  aristocratic  states- 
men and  diplomatists,  will  not  serve  now ;  for  the  revival 
of  civilization  after  the  war  cannot  be  effected  by  artificial 
breathing:  the  driving  force  of  an  undeluded  popular 
consent  is  indispensable,  and  will  be  impossible  until  the 
statesman  can  appeal  to  the  vital  instincts  of  the  people 
in  terms  of  a  common  religion.  The  success  of  the  Hang 
the  Kaiser  cry  at  the  last  General  Election  shews  us  very 
terrifyingly  how  a  common  irreligion  can  be  used  by 
myopic  demagogy;  and  common  irreligion  will  destroy 
civilization  unless  it  is  countered  by  common  religion. 


Back  to  Methuselah  Ixxxv 

The  Danger  of  Reaction 

And  here  arises  the  danger  that  when  we  reahze  this 
we  shall  do  just  what  we  did  half  a  century  ago,  and 
what  Pliable  did  in  The  Pilgrim's  Progress  when  Chris- 
tian landed  him  in  the  Slough  of  Despond :  that  is,  run 
back  in  terror  to  our  old  superstitions.  We  jumped  out 
of  the  frjing-pan  into  the  fire ;  and  we  are  just  as  likely 
to  jump  back  again,  now  that  we  feel  hotter  than  ever. 
History  records  very  little  in  the  way  of  mental  activity 
on  the  part  of  the  mass  of  mankind  except  a  series  of '^ 
stampedes  from  affirmative  errors  into  negative  ones  and 
back  again.  It  must  therefore  be  said  very  precisely 
and  clearly  that  the  bankruptcy  of  Darwinism  does  not 
mean  that  Nobodaddy  was  Somebodaddy  with  "body, 
parts,  and  passions"  after  all ;  that  the  world  was  made 
in  the  year  4004  b.c;  that  damnation  means  an  eternity 
of  blazing  brimstone;  that  the  Immaculate  Conception 
means  that  sex  is  sinful  and  that  Christ  was  partheno- 
genetically  brought  forth  by  a  virgin  descended  in  like 
manner  from  a  line  of  virgins  right  back  to  Eve;  that 
the  Trinity  is  an  anthropomorphic  monster  with  three 
heads  which  are  yet  only  one  head;  that  in  Rome  the 
bread  and  wine  on  the  altar  become  flesh  and  blood,  and 
in  England,  in  a  still  more  mystical  manner,  they  do  and 
they  do  not;  that  the  Bible  is  an  infallible  scientific 
manual,  an  accurate  historical  chronicle,  and  a  complete 
guide  to  conduct ;  that  we  may  lie  and  cheat  and  murder 
and  then  wash  ourselves  innocent  in  the  blood  of  the  lamb 
on  Sunday  at  the  cost  of  a  credo  and  a  penny  in  the 
plate,  and  so  on  and  so  forth.  Civilization  cannot  be 
saved  by  people  not  only  crude  enough  to  believe  these 
things,  but  irreligious  enough  to  believe  that  such  belief 
constitutes  a  religion.  The  education  of  children  can- 
not safely  be  left  in  their  hands.     If  dwindling  sects 


Ixxxvi  Back  to  Methuselah 

like  the  Church  of  England,  the  Church  of  Rome,  the 
Greek  Church,  and  the  rest,  persist  in  trying  to  cramp 
the  human  mind  within  the  limits  of  these  grotesque 
perversions  of  natural  truths  and  poetic  metaphors,  then 
they  must  be  ruthlessly  banished  from  the  schools  until 
they  either  perish  in  general  contempt  or  discover  the 
soul  that  is  hidden  in  every  dogma.  The  real  Class  War 
will  be  a  war  of  intellectual  classes ;  and  its  conquest  will 
be  the  souls  of  the  children. 


A  Touchstone  for  Dogma 

The  test  of  a  dogma  is  its  universality.  As  long  as 
the  Church  of  England  preaches  a  single  doctrine  that 
the  Brahman,  the  Buddhist,  the  Mussulman,  the  Parsee, 
and  all  the  other  sectarians  who  are  British  subjects 
cannot  accept,  it  has  no  legitimate  place  in  the  counsels 
of  the  British  Commonwealth,  and  will  remain  what  it 
is  at  present,  a  corrupter  of  youth,  a  danger  to  the 
State,  and  an  obstruction  to  the  fellowship  of  the  Holy 
Ghost.  This  has  never  been  more  strongly  felt  than  at 
present,  after  a  war  in  which  the  Church  failed  grossly 
in  the  courage  of  its  profession,  aiid  sold  its  lilies  for 
the  laurels  of  the  soldiers  of  the  Victoria  Cross.  All 
the  cocks  in  Christendom  have  been  crowing  shame  on  it 
ever  since;  and  it  will  not  be  spared  for  the  sake  of  the 
two  or  three  faithful  who  were  found  even  among  the 
bishops.  Let  the  Church  take  it  on  authority,  even  my 
authority  (as  a  professional  legend  maker)  if  it  cannot 
see  the  truth  by  its  own  light :  no  dogma  can  be  a  legend. 
A  legend  can  pass  an  ethnical  frontier  as  a  legend,  but 
not  as  a  truth ;  whilst  the  only  frontier  to  the  currency 
of  a  sound  dogma  as  such  is  the  frontier  of  capacity  for 
understanding  it. 

This  does  not  mean  that  we  should  throw  away  legend 


Back  to  Methuselah  Ixxxvii 

and  parable  and  drama :  they  are  the  natural  vehicles  of 
dogma ;  but  woe  to  the  Churches  and  rulers  who  substi- 
tute the  legend  for  the  dogma,  the  parable  for  the  his- 
tory, the  drama  for  the  religion !  Better  by  far  declare 
the  throne  of  God  empty  than  set  a  liar  and  a  fool  on 
it.  What  are  called  wars  of  religion  are  always  wars 
to  destroy  religion  by  affirming  the  historical  truth  or 
material  substantiality  of  some  legend,  and  killing  those 
who  refuse  to  accept  it  as  historical  or  substantial.  But 
who  has  ever  refused  to  accept  a  good  legend  with  delight 
as  a  legend.?  The  legends,  the  parables,  the  dramas,  are 
among  the  choicest  treasures  of  mankind.  No  one  is 
ever  tired  of  stories  of  miracles.  In  vain  did  Mahomet 
repudiate  the  miracles  ascribed  to  him :  in  vain  did  Christ 
furiously  scold  those  who  asked  him  to  give  them  an 
exhibition  as  a  conjuror:  in  vain  did  the  saints  declare 
that  God  chose  them  not  for  their  powers  but  for  their 
weaknesses;  that  the  humble  might  be  exalted,  and  the 
proud  rebuked.  People  will  have  their  miracles,  their 
stories,  their  heroes  and  heroines  and  saints  and  martyrs 
and  divinities  to  exercise  their  gifts  of  affection,  admi- 
ration, wonder,  and  worship,  and  their  Judases  and 
devils  to  enable  them  to  be  angry  and  yet  feel  that  they 
do  well  to  be  angry.  Every  one  of  these  legends  is  the 
common  heritage  of  the  human  race;  and  there  is  only 
one  inexorable  condition  attached  to  their  healthy  enj  oy- 
ment,  which  is  that  no  one  shall  believe  them  literally. 
The  reading  of  stories  and  delighting  in  them  made 
Don  Quixote  a  gentleman:  the  believing  them  literally 
made  him  a  madman  who  slew  lambs  instead  of  feeding 
them.  In  England  to-day  good  books  of  Eastern  reli- 
gious legends  are  read  eagerly;  and  Protestants  and 
Atheists  read  Roman  Catholic  legends  of  the  Saints  with 
pleasure.  But  sucb  fare  is  shirked  by  Indians  and 
Roman  Catholics.     Freethinkers  read  the  Bible:  indeed 


Ixxxviii  Back  to  Methuselah 

they  seem  to  be  its  only  readers  now  except  the  reluctant 
parsons  at  the  church  lecterns,  who  communicate  their 
discomfort  to  the  congregation  by  gargling  the  words 
in  their  throats  in  an  unnatural  manner  that  is  as  repul- 
sive as  it  is  unintelligible.  And  this  is  because  the  im- 
position of  the  legends  as  literal  truths  at  once  changes 
them  from  parables  into  falsehoods.  The  feeling 
against  the  Bible  has  become  so  strong  at  last  that  edu- 
cated people  not  only  refuse  to  outrage  their  intellectual 
consciences  by  reading  the  legend  of  Noah's  Ark,  with 
its  funny  beginning  about  the  animals  and  its  exquisite 
end  about  the  birds :  they  will  not  read  even  the  chronicles 
of  King  David,  which  may  very  well  be  true,  and  are 
certainly  more  candid  than  the  official  biographies  of 
our  contemporary  monarchs. 

What  to  Do  With  the  Legends 

What  we  should  do,  then,  is  to  pool  our  legends  and 
make  a  delightful  stock  of  religious  folk-lore  on  an 
honest  basis  for  all  mankind.  With  our  minds  freed 
from  pretence  and  falsehood  we  could  enter  into  the 
heritage  of  all  the  faiths.  China  would  share  her  sages 
with  Spain,  and  Spain  her  saints  with  China.  The 
Ulster  man  who  now  gives  his  son  an  unmerciful  thrash- 
ing if  the  boy  is  so  tactless  as  to  ask  how  the  evening 
and  the  morning  could  be  the  first  day  before  the  sun 
was  created,  or  to  betray  an  innocent  calf-love  for  the 
Virgin  Mary,  would  buy  him  a  bookful  of  legends  of 
the  creation  and  of  mothers  of  God  from  all  parts  of 
the  world,  and  be  very  glad  to  find  his  laddie  as  inter- 
ested in  such  things  as  in  marbles  or  Police  and  Rob- 
bers. That  would  be  better  than  beating  all  good  feel- 
ing towards  religion  out  of  the  child,  and  blackening 
his  mind  by  teaching  him  that  the  worshippers  of  the 


Back  to  Methuselah  Ixxxix 

holy  virgins,  whether  of  the  Parthenon  or  St.  Peter's, 
are  fire-doomed  heathens  and  idolaters.  All  the  sweet- 
ness of  religion  is  conveyed  to  the  world  by  the  hands 
of  story-tellers  and  image-makers.  Without  their  fic- 
tions the  truths  of  religion  would  for  the  multitude  be 
neither  intelligible  nor  even  apprehensible;  and  the 
prophets  would  prophesy  and  the  teachers  teach  in  vain. 
And  nothing  stands  between  the  people  and  the  fictions 
except  the  silly  falsehood  that  the  fictions  are  literal 
truths,  and  that  there  is  nothing  in  religion  but  fiction, 

A  Lesson  from  Science  to  the  Churches 

Let  the  Churches  ask  themselves  why  there  is  no  revolt 
against  the  dogmas  of  mathematics  though  there  is  one 
against  the  dogmas  of  religion.  It  is  not  that  the 
mathematical  dogmas  are  more  comprehensible.  The 
law  of  inverse  squares  is  as  incomprehensible  to  the 
common  man  as  the  Athanasian  creed.  It  is  not 
that  science  is  free  from  legends,  witchcraft,  mira- 
cles, biographic  boostings  of  quacks  as  heroes  and 
saints,  and  of  barren  scoundrels  as  explorers  and  dis- 
coverers. On  the  contrary,  the  iconography  and  hagi- 
ology  of  Scientism  are  as  copious  as  they  are  mostly 
squalid.  But  no  student  of  science  has  yet  been  taught 
that  specific  gravity  consists  in  the  belief  that  Archi- 
medes jumped  out  of  his  bath  and  ran  naked  through 
the  streets  of  Syracuse  shouting  Eureka,  Eureka,  or 
that  the  law  of  inverse  squares  must  be  discarded  if  any- 
one can  prove  that  Newton  was  never  in  an  orchard  in 
his  life.  When  some  unusually  conscientious  or  enter- 
prising bacteriologist  reads  the  pamphlets  of  Jenner, 
and  discovers  that  they  might  have  been  written  by  an 
ignorant  but  curious  and  observant  nurserymaid,  and 
could  not  possibly  have  been  written  by  any  person  with 


xc  Back  to  Methuselah 

a  scientifically  trained  mind,  he  does  not  feel  that  the 
whole  edifice  of  science  has  collapsed  and  crumbled,  and 
that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  smallpox.  It  may  come 
to  that  yet;  for  hygiene,  as  it  forces  its  way  into  our 
schools,  is  being  taught  as  falsely  as  religion  is  taught 
there;  but  in  mathematics  and  physics  the  faith  is  still 
kept  pure,  and  you  may  take  the  law  and  leave  the 
legends  without  suspicion  of  heresy.  Accordingly,  the 
tower  of  the  mathematician  stands  unshaken  whilst  the 
temple  of  the  priest  rocks  to  its  foundation. 

The  Religious  art  of  the  Twentieth  Century 

Creative  Evolution  is  already  a  religion,  and  is  indeed 
now  unmistakably  the  religion  of  the  twentieth  century, 
newly  arisen  from  the  ashes  of  pseudo-Christianity,  of 
mere  scepticism,  and  of  the  soulless  affirmations  and 
blind  negations  of  the  Mechanists  and  Neo-Darwinians. 
But  it  cannot  become  a  popular  religion  until  it  has  its 
legends,  its  parables,  its  miracles.  And  when  I  say  pop- 
ular I  do  not  mean  apprehensible  by  villagers  only.  I 
mean  apprehensible  by  Cabinet  Ministers  as  well.  It  is 
unreasonable  to  look  to  the  professional  politician  and 
administrator  for  light  and  leading  in  religion.  He  is 
neither  a  philosopher  nor  a  prophet :  if  he  were,  he  would 
be  philosophizing  and  prophesying,  and  not  neglecting 
both  for  the  drudgery  of  practical  government.  Soc- 
rates and  Coleridge  did  not  remain  soldiers,  nor  could 
John  Stuart  Mill  remain  the  representative  of  West- 
minster in  the  House  of  Commons  even  when  he  was 
willing.  The  Westminster  electors  admired  Mill  for 
telling  them  that  much  of  the  difficulty  of  dealing  with 
them  arose  from  their  being  inveterate  liars.  But  they 
would  not  vote  a  second  time  for  the  man  who  was  not 
afraid  to  break  the  crust  of  mendacity  on  which  they 


Back  to  Methuselah  xci 

were  all  dancing;  for  it  seemed  to  them  that  there  was 
a  volcanic  abyss  beneath,  not  having  his  philosophic  con- 
viction that  the  truth  is  the  solidest  standing  ground  in 
the  end.  Your  front  bench  man  will  always  be  an  ex- 
ploiter of  the  popular  religion  or  irreligion.  Not  being 
an  expert,  he  must  take  it  as  he  finds  it;  and  before  he 
can  take  it,  he  must  have  been  told  stories  about  it  in 
his  childhood  and  had  before  him  all  his  life  an  elaborate 
iconography  of  it  produced  by  writers,  painters,  sculp- 
tors, temple  architects,  and  artists  of  all  the  higher  sorts. 
Even  if,  as  sometimes  happens,  he  is  a  bit  of  an  amateur, 
in  metaphysics  as  well  as  a  professional  politician,  he 
must  still  govern  according  to  the  popular  iconography, 
and  not  according  to  his  own  personal  interpretations 
if  these  happen  to  be  heterodox. 

It  will  be  seen  then  that  the  revival  of  religion  on  a 
scientific  basis  does  not  mean  the  death  of  art,  but  a 
glorious  rebirth  of  it.  Indeed  art  has  never  been  great 
when  it  was  not  providing  an  iconography  for  a  live 
religion.  And  it  has  never  been  quite  contemptible  ex- 
cept when  imitating  the  iconography  after  the  religion 
had  become  a  superstition.  Italian  painting  from 
Giotto  to  Carpaccio  is  all  religious  painting;  and  it 
moves  us  deeply  and  has  real  greatness.  Compare  with 
it  the  attempts  of  our  painters  a  century  ago  to  achieve 
the  eflPects  of  the  old  masters  by  imitation  when  they 
should  have  been  illustrating  a  faith  of  their  own.  Con- 
template, if  you  can  bear  it,  the  dull  daubs  of  Hilton 
and  Haydon,  who  knew  so  much  more  about  drawing  and 
scumbling  and  glazing  and  perspective  and  anatomy  and 
"marvellous  foreshortening"  than  Giotto,  the  latchet  of 
whose  shoe  they  were  nevertheless  not  worthy  to  unloose. 
Compare  Mozart's  Magic  Flute,  Beethoven's  Ninth 
Symphony,  Wagner's  Ring,  all  of  them  reachings-for- 
ward  to  the  new  Vitalist  art,  with  the  dreary  pseudo- 


xcii  Back  to  Methuselah 

sacred  oratories  and  cantatas  which  were  produced  for 
no  better  reason  than  that  Handel  had  formerly  made 
splendid  thunder  in  that  way,  and  with  the  stale  confec- 
tionery, mostly  too  would-be  pious  to  be  even  cheerfully 
toothsome,  of  Spohr  and  Mendelssohn,  Stainer  and 
Parry,  which  spread  indigestion  at  our  musical  festivals 
until  I  publicly  told  Parry  the  bludgeoning  truth  about 
his  Job  and  woke  him  to  conviction  of  sin.  Compare 
Flaxman  and  Thorwaldsen  and  Gibson  and  Phidias  and 
Praxiteles,  Stevens  with  Michael  Angelo,  Bouguereau's 
Virgin  with  Cimabue's,  or  the  best  operatic  Christs  of 
SchefFer  and  Miiller  with  the  worst  Christs  that  the 
worst  painters  could  paint  before  the  end  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  and  you  must  feel  that  until  we  have  a  great 
religious  movement  we  cannot  hope  for  a  great  artistic 
one.  The  disillusioned  Raphael  could  paint  a  mother 
and  child,  but  not  a  queen  of  Heaven  as  much  less  skil- 
ful men  had  done  in  the  days  of  his  great-grandfather ; 
yet  he  could  reach  forward  to  the  twentieth  century  and 
paint  a  Transfiguration  of  the  Son  of  Man  as  they  could 
not.  Also,  please  note,  he  could  decorate  a  house  of 
pleasure  for  a  cardinal  very  beautifully  with  voluptuous 
pictures  of  Cupid  and  Psyche;  for  this  simple  sort  of 
Vitalism  is  always  with  us,  and,  like  portrait  painting, 
keeps  the  artist  supplied  with  subject  matter  in  the  in- 
tervals between  the  ages  of  faith ;  so  that  your  sceptical 
Rembrandts  and  Velasquezs  are  at  least  not  compelled 
to  paint  shop  fronts  for  want  of  anything  else  to  paint 
in  which  they  can  really  believe. 

The  Artist-Prophets 

And  there  are  always  certain  rare  but  Intensely  Inter- 
esting anticipations.  Michael  Angelo  could  not  very  well 
believe  in  Julius  II  or  Leo  X,  or  in  much  that  they  be- 


Back  to  Methuselah  xciii 

lieved  in;  but  he  could  paint  the  Superman  three  hun- 
dred years  before  Nietzsche  wrote  Also  Sprach  Zara- 
thustra  and  Strauss  set  it  to  music.  Michael  Angelo 
won  the  primacy  among  all  modern  painters  and  sculp- 
tors solely  by  his  power  of  shewing  us  superhuman  per- 
sons. On  the  strength  of  his  decoration  and  color  alone 
he  would  hardly  have  survived  his  own  death  twenty 
years ;  and  even  his  design  would  have  had  only  an  aca- 
demic interest;  but  as  a  painter  of  prophets  and  sibyls 
he  is  greatest  among  the  very  greatest  in  his  craft,  be- 
cause we  aspire  to  a  world  of  prophets  and  sybils. 
Beethoven  never  heard  of  radio-activity  nor  of  electrons 
dancing  in  vortices  of  inconceivable  energy;  but  pray 
can  anyone  explain  the  last  movement  of  his  Hammer- 
klavier  Sonata,  Opus  106,  otherwise  than  as  a  musical 
picture  of  these  whirling  electrons?  His  contempo- 
raries said  he  was  mad,  partly  perhaps  because  the 
movement  was  so  hard  to  play ;  but  we,  who  can  make 
a  pianola  play  it  to  us  over  and  over  until  it  is  as 
familiar  as  Pop  Goes  the  Weasel,  know  that  it  is  sane 
and  methodical.  As  such,  it  must  represent  something; 
and  as  all  Beethoven's  serious  compositions  represent 
some  process  within  himself,  some  nerve  storm  or  soul 
storm,  and  the  storm  here  is  clearly  one  of  physical 
movement,  I  should  much  like  to  know  what  other  storm 
than  the  atomic  storm  could  have  driven  him  to  this 
oddest  of  all  those  many  expressions  of  cyclonic  energy 
v^hich  have  given  him  the  same  distinction  among 
musicians  that  Michael  Angelo  has  amcng  draughtsmen. 
In  Beethoven's  day  the  business  of  art  was  held  to  be 
'*the  sublime  and  beautiful."  In  our  day  it  has  fallen 
to  be  the  imitative  and  voluptuous.  In  both  periods  the 
word  passionate  has  been  freely  employed;  but  in  the 
eighteenth  century  passion  meant  irresistible  impulse  of 
khe  loftiest  kind :  for  example,  a  passion  for  astronomy 


xciv  Back  to  Methuselah 

or  fOi  truth.  For  us  it  has  come  to  mean  concupiscence 
and  nothing  else.  One  might  say  to  the  art  of  Europe 
what  Antony  said  to  the  corpse  of  Csesar:  "Are  all  thy 
conquests,  glories,  triumphs,  spoils,  shrunk  to  this  little 
measure?"  But  in  fact  it  is  the  mind  of  Europe  that 
has  shrunk,  being,  as  we  have  seen,  wholly  preoccupied 
with  a  busy  spring-cleaning  to  get  rid  of  its  super- 
stitions before  readjusting  itself  to  the  new  conception 
of  Evolution. 

Evolution  in  the  Theatre 

On  the  stage  (  and  here  I  come  at  last  to  my  own  par- 
ticular function  in  the  matter).  Comedy,  as  a  destruc- 
tive, derisory,  critical,  negative  art,  kept  the  theatre 
open  when  sublime  tragedy  perished.  From  Moliere  to 
Oscar  Wilde  we  had  a  line  of  comedic  playwrights  who, 
if  they  had  nothing  fundamentally  positive  to  say,  were 
at  least  in  revolt  against  falsehood  and  imposture,  and 
were  not  only,  as  they  claimed,  "chastening  morals  by 
ridicule,"  but,  in  Johnson's  phrase,  clearing  out  minds 
of  cant,  and  thereby  shewing  an  uneasiness  in  the 
presence  of  error  which  is  the  surest  symptom  of  intel- 
lectual vitality.  Meanwhile  the  name  of  Tragedy  was 
assumed  by  plays  in  which  everyone  was  killed  in  the  last 
act,  just  as,  in  spite  of  Moliere,  plays  in  which  everyone 
was  married  in  the  last  act  called  themselves  comedies. 
Now  neither  tragedies  nor  comedies  can  be  produced 
according  to  a  prescription  which  gives  only  the  last 
moments  of  the  last  act.  Shakespear  did  not  make 
Hamlet  out  of  its  final  butchery,  nor  Twelfth  Night  out 
of  its  final  matrimony.  And  he  could  not  become  the 
conscious  iconographer  of  a  religion  because  he  had  no 
conscious  religion.  He  had  therefore  to  exercise  his 
extraordinary  natural  gifts  in  the  very  entertaining  art 


Back  to  Methuselah  xcv 

of  mimicry,  giving  us  the  famous  "delineation  of  char- 
acter" which  make  his  plays,  like  the  novels  of  Scott, 
Dumas,  and  Dickens,  so  delightful.  Also,  he  developed 
that  curious  and  questionable  art  of  building  us  a  refuge 
from  despair  by  disguising  the  cruelties  of  Nature  as 
jokes.  But  with  all  his  gifts,  the  fact  remains  that  he 
never  found  the  inspiration  to  write  an  original  play. 
He  furbished  up  old  plays,  and  adapted  popular  stories, 
and  chapters  of  history  from  Holinshed's  Chronicle  and 
Plutarch's  biographies,  to  the  stage.  All  this  he  did 
(  or  did  not ;  for  there  are  minus  quantities  in  the  algebra 
of  art)  with  a  recklessness  which  shewed  that  his  trade 
lay  far  from  his  conscience.  It  is  true  that  he  never 
takes  his  characters  from  the  borrowed  story,  because 
it  was  less  trouble  and  more  fun  to  him  to  create  them 
afresh ;  but  none  the  less  he  heaps  the  murders  and  vil- 
lainies of  the  borrowed  story  on  his  own  essentially 
gentle  creations  without  scruple,  no  matter  how  incon- 
gruous they  may  be.  And  aU  the  time  his  vital  need  for 
a  philosophy  drives  him  to  seek  one  by  the  quaint  pro- 
fessional method  of  introducing  philosophers  as  char- 
acters into  his  plays,  and  even  of  making  his  heroes 
philosophers;  but  when  they  come  on  the  stage  they 
have  no  philosophy  to  expound:  they  are  only  pessi- 
mists and  railers;  and  their  occasional  would-be  philo- 
sophic speeches,  such  as  The  Seven  Ages  of  Man  and 
The  Soliloquy  on  Suicide,  shew  how  deeply  in  the  dark 
Shakespear  was  as  to  what  philosophy  means.  He 
forced  himself  in  among  the  greatest  of  playwrights 
without  having  once  entered  that  region  in  which 
Michael  Angelo,  Beethoven,  Goethe,  and  the  antique 
Athenian  stage  poets  are  great.  He  would  really  not  be 
great  at  all  if  it  were  not  that  he  had  religion  enough  to 
be  aware  that  his  religionless  condition  was  one  of 
despair.      His   greatest  work,  Lear,   would  be   only   a 


xcvi  Back  to  Methuselah 

melodrama  were  it  not  for  its  express  admission  that  if 
there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said  of  the  universe  than 
Hamlet  has  to  say,  then  "as  flies  to  wanton  boys  so  we 
are  to  the  gods :  they  kill  us  for  their  sport." 

Ever  since  Shakespear,  playwrights  have  been  strug- 
gling with  the  same  lack  of  religion ;  and  many  of  them 
were  forced  to  become  mere  panders  and  sensation- 
mongers  because,  though  they  had  higher  ambitions, 
they  could  find  no  better  subject  matter.  From  Con- 
greve  to  Sheridan  they  were  so  sterile  in  spite  of  their 
wit  that  they  did  not  achieve  between  them  the  output  of 
MoHere's  single  lifetime;  and  they  were  all  (not  without 
reason)  ashamed  of  their  profession,  and  preferred  to 
be  regarded  as  mere  men  of  fashion  with  a  rakish  hobby. 
Goldsmith's  was  the  only  saved  soul  in  that  pandemonium. 

The  leaders  among  my  own  contemporaries  (now 
veterans)  snatched  at  minor  social  problems  rather  than 
write  entirely  without  any  wider  purpose  than  to  win 
money  and  fame.  One  of  them  expressed  to  me  his  envy 
of  the  ancient  Greek  playwrights  because  the  Athenians 
asked  them,  not  for  some  "new  and  original"  disguise 
of  the  half-dozen  threadbare  plots  of  the  modern  theatre, 
but  for  the  deepest  lesson  they  could  draw  from  the 
familiar  and  sacred  legends  of  their  country.  "Let  us 
all,"  he  said,  "write  an  Electra,  an  Antigone,  an 
Agamemnon,  and  shew  what  we  can  do  with  it."  But 
he  did  not  write  any  of  them,  because  these  legends  are 
no  longer  religious :  Aphrodite  and  Artemis  and  Poseidon 
are  deader  than  their  statues.  Another,  with  a  com- 
manding position  and  every  trick  of  British  farce  and 
Parisian  drama  at  his  fingers'  ends,  finally  could  not 
write  without  a  sermon  to  preach,  and  yet  could  not  find 
texts  more  fundamental  than  the  hypocrisies  of  sham 
Puritanism,  or  the  matrimonial  speculation  which  makes 
our  young  actresses  as  careful  of  their  reputations  as  of 


Back  to  Methuselah  xcvii 

their  complexions.  A  third,  too  tender-hearted,  to  break 
our  spirits  with  the  realities  of  a  bitter  experience, 
coaxed  a  wistful  pathos  and  a  dainty  fun  out  of  the 
fairy  cloudland  that  lay  between  him  and  the  empty 
heavens.  The  giants  of  the  theatre  of  our  time,  Ibsen 
and  Strindberg,  had  no  greater  comfort  for  the  world 
than  we :  indeed  much  less ;  for  they  refused  us  even  the 
Shakespearian-Dickensian  consolation  of  laughter  at 
mischief,  accurately  called  comic  relief.  Our  emanci- 
pated 3^oung  successors  scorn  us,  very  properly.  But 
they  will  be  able  to  do  no  better  whilst  the  drama  remains 
pre-Evolutionist.  Let  them  consider  the  great  exception 
of  Goethe.  He,  no  richer  than  Shakespear,  Ibsen,  or 
Strindberg  in  specific  talent  as  a  playwright,  is  in  the 
empyrean  whilst  they  are  gnashing  their  teeth  in  im- 
potent fury  in  the  mud,  or  at  best  finding  an  acid  enjoy- 
ment in  the  irony  of  their  predicament.  Goethe  is 
Olympian:  the  other  giants  are  infernal  in  everything 
but  their  veracity  and  their  repudiation  of  the  ir religion 
of  their  time:  that  is,  they  are  bitter  and  hopeless.  It 
is  not  a  question  of  mere  dates.  Goethe  was  an 
Evolutionist  in  1830:  many  pla^^wrights,  even  young 
ones,  are  still  untouched  by  Creative  Evolution  in  1920, 
Ibsen  was  Darwinized  to  the  extent  of  exploiting 
heredity  on  the  stage  much  as  the  ancient  Athenian  play- 
wrights exploited  the  Eumenides ;  but  there  is  no  trace 
in  his  plays  of  any  faith  in  or  knowledge  of  Creative 
Evolution  as  a  modern  scientific  fact,  though  the  poetic 
aspiration  is  plain  enough  in  his  Emperor  or  Galilean; 
and  as  it  is  one  of  Ibsen's  great  distinctions  that  nothing 
was  valid  for  him  but  science,  he  left  that  vision  of  the 
future  which  his  Roman  seer  calls  "the  third  Empire" 
behind  him  as  a  Utopian  dream  when  he  settled  down  to 
his  serious  grapple  with  realities  in  those  plays  of 
modern  life  with  which  he  overcame  Europe  and  broke 


xcviii  Back  to  Methuselah 

the  dusty  windows  of  every  dry-rotten  theatre  in  it  from 
IMoscow  to  Manchester. 


My  Own  Part  in  the  Matter 

In  my  own  activities  as  a  playwright  I  found  this  state 
of  things  intolerable.  The  fashionable  theatre  pre- 
scribed one  serious  subject:  clandestine  adultery;  the 
dullest  of  all  subjects  for  a  serious  author,  whatever  it 
may  be  for  audiences  who  read  the  police  intelligence 
and  skip  the  reviews  and  leading  articles.  I  tried  slum- 
landlordism,  doctrinaire  Free  Love  (pseudo-Ibsenism), 
prostitution,  militarism,  marriage,  history,  current 
politics,  natural  Christianity,  national  and  individual 
character,  paradoxes  of  conventional  society,  husband- 
hunting,  questions  of  conscience,  professional  delusions 
and  impostures,  all  worked  into  a  series  of  comedies  of 
manners  in  the  classic  fashion,  which  was  then  very 
much  out  of  fashion,  the  mechanical  tricks  of  Parisian 
"construction"  being  de  rigueur  in  the  theatre.  But 
this,  though  it  occupied  me  and  established  me  profes- 
sionally, did  not  constitute  me  an  iconographer  of  the 
religion  of  my  time,  and  thus  fulfil  my  natural  function 
as  an  artist.  I  was  quite  conscious  of  this ;  for  I  had 
always  known  that  civilization  needs  a  religion  as  a 
matter  of  life  or  death;  and  as  the  conception  of 
Cxeafce^EypMion  developed  I  saw  that  we  were  at  last 
within  reach  of  a  faith  which  complied  with  the  first 
condition  of  all  the  religions  that  have  ever  taken  hold 
of  humanity:  namely,  that  it  must  be,  first  and  funda- 
mentally, a  science  of  metabiology.  This  was  a  crucial 
point  with  me;  for  I  had  seen  Bible  fetichism,  after 
standing  up  to  all  the  rationalistic  batteries  of  Hume, 
Voltaire,  and  the  rest,  collapse  before  the  onslaught  of 
much  less  gifted  Evolutionists,  solely  because  they  dis- 


Back  to  Methuselah  xcix 

credited  it  as  a  biological  document;  so  that  from  that 
moment  it  lost  its  hold,  and  left  literate  Christendom 
faithless.  My  own  Irish  eighteenth-centuryism  made  it 
impossible  for  me  to  believe  anything  until  I  could  con- 
ceive it  as  a  scientific  hypothesis,  even  though  the 
abominations,  quackeries,  impostures,  venalities,  creduli- 
ties, and  delusions  of  the  camp  followers  of  science,  and 
the  brazen  lies  and  priestly  pretensions  of  the  pseudo- 
scientific  cure-mongers,  all  sedulously  inculcated  by 
modern  "secondary  education,"  were  so  monstrous  that 
I  was  sometimes  forced  to  make  a  verbal  distinction  be- 
tween science  and  knowledge  lest  I  should  mislead  my 
readers.  But  I  never  forgot  that  without  knowledge 
even  wisdom  is  more  dangerous  than  mere  opportunist 
ignorance,  and  that  somebody  must  take  the  Garden  of 
Eden  in  hand  and  weed  it  properly. 

Accordingly,  in  1901,  I  took  the  legend  of  Don  Juan 
in  its  Mozartian  form  and  made  it  a  dramatic  parable  of 
Creative  Evolution*  But  being  then  at  the  height  of 
my  invention  and  comedic  talent,  I  decorated  it  too  bril- 
liantly and  lavishly.  I  surrounded  it  with  a  comedy  of 
which  it  formed  only  one  act,  and  that  act  was  so  com- 
pletely episodical  (it  was  a  dream  which  did  not  affect 
the  action  of  the  piece)  that  the  comedy  could  be  de- 
tached and  played  by  itself :  indeed  it  could  hardly  be 
played  at  full  length  owing  to  the  enormous  length  of 
the  entire  work,  though  that  feat  has  been  performed  a 
few  times  in  Scotland  by  Mr.  Esme  Percy,  who  led  one 
of  the  forlorn  hopes  of  the  advanced  drama  at  that  time. 
Also  I  supplied  the  published  work  with  an  imposing 
framework  consisting  of  a  preface,  an  appendix  called 
The  Revolutionist's  Handbook,  and  a  final  display  of 
aphoristic  fireworks.  The  effect  was  so  vertiginous, 
apparently,  that  nobody  noticed  the  new  religion  in  the 
centre  of  the  intellectual  whirlpool'.^J'Now  T'pfotest  1 


c  Back  to  Methuselah 

did  not  cut  these  cerebral  capers  in  mere  inconsiderate 
exuberance.  I  did  it  because  the  worst  convention  of 
the  criticism  of  the  theatre  current  at  that  time  was  that 
intellectual  seriousness  is  out  of  place  on  the  stage; 
that  the  theatre  is  a  place  of  shallow  amusement;  that 
people  go  there  to  be  soothed  after  the  enormous  intel- 
lectual strain  of  a  day  in  the  city:  in  short,  that  a 
playwright  is  a  person  whose  business  it  is  to  make 
unwholesome  confectionery  out  of  cheap  emotions.  My 
answer  to  this  was  to  put  all  my  intellectual  goods  in 
the  shop  window  under  the  sign  of  Man  and  Superman. 
That  part  of  my  design  succeeded.  By  good  luck  and 
acting,  the  comedy  triumphed  on  the  stage;  and  the 
book  was  a  good  deal  discussed.  Since  then  the  sweet- 
shop view  of  the  theatre  has  been  out  of  countenance; 
and  its  critical  exponents  have  been  driven  to  take  an 
intellectual  pose  which,  though  often  more  trying  than 
their  old  intellectually  nihilistic  vulgarity,  at  least  con- 
cedes the  dignity  of  the  theatre,  not  to  mention  the  use- 
fulness of  those  who  live  by  criticizing  it.  And  the 
younger  playwrights  are  not  only  taking  their  art 
seriously,  but  being  taken  seriously  themselves.  The 
critic  who  ought  to  be  a  newsboy  is  now  comparatively 
rare. 

I  now  find  myself  inspired  to  make  a  second  legend  of 
Creative  Evolution  without  distractions  and  embellish- 
ments. My  sands  are  running  out;  the  exuberance  of 
1901  has  aged  into  the  garrulity  of  19S0;  and  the  war 
has  been  a  stem  intimation  that  the  matter  is  not  one  to 
be  trifled  with.  I  abandon  the  legend  of  Don  Juan  with 
its  erotic  associations,  and  go  back  to  the  legend  of  the 
Garden  of  Eden.  I  exploit  the  eternal  interest  of  the 
philosopher's  stone  which  enables  men  to  live  for  ever. 
I  am  not,  I  hope,  under  more  illusion  than  is  humanly 
inevitable  as  to  the  crudity  of  this  my  beginning  of  a 


Back  to  Methuselah  ci 

Bible  for  Creative  Evolution.  I  am  doing  the  best  I  can 
at  my  age.  My  powers  are  waning;  but  so  much  the 
better  for  those  who  found  me  unbearably  brilliant 
when  I  was  in  my  prime.  It  is  my  hope  that  a  hundred 
apter  and  more  elegant  parables  by  younger  hands  will 
soon  leave  mine  as  far  behind  as  the  religious  pictures 
of  the  fifteenth  century  left  behind  the  first  attempts  of 
the  early  Christians  at  iconography.  In  that  hope  I 
withdraw  and  ring  up  the  curtain. 


CONTENTS 


In  the  Beginning :  b.c.  4004  (In  the  Garden  of  Eden)  1 
The  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas :  Present  Day  39 
The  Thing  Happens:  a.d.  2170  .  .  .  .101 
Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman :  A.D.  3000  .  155 
As  Far  as  Thought  Can  Reach :  a.d.  31,920    .       .     233 


eui 


PARTI 

IN  THE  BEGINNING 

XXXII 


IN  THE  BEGINNING 
ACT  I 

The  Garden  of  Eden,  Afternoon.  An  immense 
serpent  is  sleeping  with  her  head  buried  in  a  thick  bed  of 
Johnsworty  and  her  body  coiled  in  apparently  endless 
rings  through  the  branches  of  a  tree,  which  is  already 
well  grown;  for  the  days  of  creation  have  been  longer 
than  our  reckoning.  She  is  not  yet  visible  to  anyone 
unaware  of  her  presence,  as  her  colors  of  green  and 
brown  make  a  perfect  camouflage.  Near  her  head  a  low 
rock  shews  above  the  Johnswort. 

The  rock  and  tree  are  on  the  border  of  a  glade  in 
which  lies  a  dead  fawn  all  awry,  its  neck  being  broken. 
Adam,  crouching  with  one  hand  on  the  rock,  is  staring 
in  consternation  at  the  dead  body.  He  has  not  noticed 
the  serpent  on  his  left  hand.  He  turns  his  face  to  his 
right  and  calls  excitedly. 

ADAM.     Eve !  Eve ! 

eve's  voice.     What  is  it,  Adam? 

ADAM.     Come  here.    Quick.    Something  has  happened. 

EVE  [rMwmn^  tTi]  What?  Where?  \^ Adam  points  to 
the  farvn.]  Oh!  [She  goes  to  it;  and  he  is  emboldened 
to  go  with  her.']     What  is  the  matter  with  its  eyes? 

ADAM.     It  is  not  only  its  eyes.    Look.     [^He  kicks  it.~\ 

EVE.     Ohdont!    Why  doesnt  it  wake? 

ADAM.     I  dont  know.    It  is  not  asleep. 

EVE.     Not  asleep? 

ADAM.     Try. 

1 


2  In  the  Beginning  Parti 

EVE  Itrt/'mg  to  slialce  it  and  roll  it  over~\  It  is  stiff  and 
cold. 

ADAM.     Nothing  will  wake  it. 

EVE.  It  has  a  queer  smell.  Pah!  ^She  dusts  her 
hands,  and  draws  away  from  i/.]  Did  you  find  it  like 
that.? 

ADAM.  No.  It  was  playing  about;  and  it  tripped 
and  went  head  over  heels.  It  never  stirred  again.  Its 
neck  is  wrong.  \^He  stoops  to  lift  the  neck  and  shew 
her.] 

EVE.     Dont  touch  it.     Come  away  from  it. 

[They  both  retreat,  and  contemplate  it  from  a  few 
steps'  distance  with  growing  repulsion,^ 

EVE.     Adam. 

ADAM.     Yes  ? 

EVE.  Suppose  you  were  to  trip  and  fall,  would  you 
go  like  that  ? 

ADAM.  Ugh!  [He  shudders  and  sits  down  on  the 
rocJc.l 

EVE  [throwing  herself  on  the  ground  beside  him,  and 
grasping  his  knee]  You  must  be  careful.  Promise  me 
you  will  be  careful. 

ADAM.  What  is  the  good  of  being  careful?  We  have 
to  live  here  for  ever.  Think  of  what  for  ever  means! 
Sooner  or  later  I  shall  trip  and  fall.  It  may  be  tomor- 
row ;  it  may  be  after  as  many  days  as  there  are  leaves  in 
the  garden  and  grains  of  sand  by  the  river.  No  matter : 
some  day  I  shall  forget  and  stumble. 

EVE.     I  too. 

ADAM  [horrified]  Oh  no,  no.  I  should  be  alone. 
Alone  for  ever.  You  must  never  put  yourself  in  danger 
of  stumbling.  You  must  not  move  about.  You  must 
sit  still.  I  will  take  care  of  you  and  bring  j^ou  what  you 
want. 

EVE  [turning  away  from  him  with  a  shrug,  and  hug- 


Act  I  In  the  Beginning  3 

ging  her  ankles^  I  should  soon  get  tired  of  that.  Be- 
sides, if  it  happened  to  you,  /  should  be  alone.  I  could 
not  sit  still  then.    And  at  last  it  would  happen  to  me  too. 

ADAM.     And  then? 

EVE.  Then  we  should  be  no  more.  There  would  be 
only  the  things  on  all  fours,  and  the  birds,  and  the 
snakes. 

ADAM.     That  must  not  be. 

EVE.     Yes :  that  must  not  be.     But  it  might  be. 

ADAM.  No.  I  tell  you  it  must  not  be.  I  know  that 
it  must  not  be. 

EVE.     We  both  know  it.    How  do  we  know  it.? 

ADAM.  There  is  a  voice  in  the  garden  that  tells  me 
things. 

EVE.  The  garden  is  full  of  voices  sometimes.  They 
put  all  sorts  of  thoughts  into  my  head. 

ADAM,  '^o  me  there  is  only  one  voice.  It  is  very  low ; 
but  it  is  so  near  that  it  is  like  a  whisper  from  within  my- 
self. There  is  no  mistaking  it  for  any  voice  of  the  birds 
or  beasts,  or  for  your  voice. 

EVE.  It  is  strange  that  I  should  hear  voices  from  all 
sides  and  you  only  one  from  within.  But  I  have  some 
thoughts  that  come  from  within  me  and  not  from  the 
voices.  The  thought  that  we  must  not  cease  to  be  comes 
from  within. 

ADAM  Idespairingly^  But  we  shall  cease  to  be.  We 
shall  fall  like  the  fawn  and  be  broken.  ^Rising  and 
moving  about  in  his  agitation~\  I  cannot  bear  this  knowl- 
edge. I  will  not  have  it.  It  must  not  be,  I  tell  you. 
Yet  I  do  not  know  how  to  prevent  it. 

EVE.  That  is  just  what  I  feel ;  but  it  is  very  strange 
that  you  should  say  so :  there  is  no  pleasing  you.  You 
change  your  mind  so  often. 

ADAM  [scolding  her']  Why  do  you  say  that?  How 
have  I  changed  my  mind? 


4  In  the  Beginning  Parti 

EVE.  You  say  we  must  not  cease  to  exist.  But  you 
used  to  complain  of  having  to  exist  always  and  for  ever. 
You  sometimes  sit  for  hours  brooding  and  silent,  hating 
me  in  your  heart.  When  I  ask  you  what  I  have  done  to 
you,  you  say  you  are  not  thinking  of  me,  but  of  the 
horror  of  having  to  be  here  for  ever.  But  I  know  very 
well  that  what  you  mean  is  the  horror  of  having  to  be 
here  with  me  for  ever. 

ADAM.  Oh!  That  is  what  you  think,  is  it.?  Well, 
you  are  wrong.  [He  sits  down  again,  sulhily.']  It  is 
the  horror  of  having  to  be  with  myself  for  ever.  I  like 
you;  but  I  do  not  like  myself.  I  want  to  be  different; 
to  be  better ;  to  begin  again  and  again ;  to  shed  myself 
as  a  snake  sheds  its  skin.  I  am  tired  of  myself.  And 
yet  I  must  endure  myself,  not  for  a  day  or  for  many 
days,  but  for  ever.  That  is  a  dreadful  thought.  That 
is  what  makes  me  sit  brooding  and  silent  and  hateful. 
Do  you  never  think  of  that  ? 

EVE.  No:  I  do  not  think  about  myself:  what  is  the 
use?  I  am  what  I  am:  nothing  can  alter  that.  I  think 
about  you. 

ADAM.  You  should  not.  You  are  always  spying  on 
me.  I  can  never  be  alone.  You  always  want  to  know 
what  I  have  been  doing.  It  is  a  burden.  You  should 
try  to  have  an  existence  of  your  own,  instead  of  occupy- 
ing yourself  with  my  existence. 

EVE.  I  have  to  think  about  you.  You  are  lazy :  you 
are  dirty :  you  neglect  yourself :  you  are  always  dream- 
ing :  you  would  eat  bad  food  and  become  disgusting  if  I 
did  not  watch  you  and  occupy  myself  with  you.  And 
now  some  day,  in  spite  of  all  my  care,  you  will  fall  on 
your  head  and  become  dead. 

ADAM.     Dead?    What  word  is  that? 

EVE  ['pointing  to  the  fawn^  Like  that.    I  call  it  dead. 


Act  I  In  the  Beginning  5 

ADAM  \_rising  and  approaching  it  slowl?^^  There  is 
something  uncanny  about  it. 

EVE  Ijoining  him^  Oh!  It  is  changing  into  little 
white  worms. 

ADAM.     Throw  it  into  the  river.    It  is  unbearable. 

EVE.     I  dare  not  touch  it. 

ADAM.  Then  I  must,  though  I  loathe  it.  It  is 
poisoning  the  air.  \_He  gathers  its  hooves  in  his  hand 
and  carries  it  away  in  the  direction  from  which  Eve 
came,  holding  it  as  far  from  him  as  possible.^ 

[Eve  looks  after  them  for  a  moment;  then,  with  a 
shiver  of  disgust,  sits  down  on  the  rock,  brooding.  The 
body  of  the  serpent  becomes  visible,  glowing  with  won- 
derful new  colors.  She  rears  her  head  slowly  from  the 
bed  of  Johnswort,  and  speaks  into  Eve's  ear  in  a  strange 
sedu£tively  musical  whisper.^ 

THE  SERPENT.       Eve. 

EVE  [startled^  Who  is  that? 

THE  SERPENT.  It  is  I.  I  have  come  to  shew  j^ou  my 
beautiful  new  hood.  See  [she  spreads  a  magnificent 
amethystine  hood~\ ! 

EVE  [admiring  it]  Oh!  But  who  taught  you  to 
speak  ? 

THE  SERPENT.  You  and  Adam.  I  have  crept  througih 
the  grass,  and  hidden,  and  listened  to  you. 

EVE.     That  was  wonderfully  clever  of  you. 

THE  SERPENT.  I  am  the  most  subtle  of  all  the  crea- 
tures of  the  field. 

EVE.  Your  hood  is  most  lovely.  [She  strokes  it  and 
pets  the  serpent.]  Pretty  thing!  Do  you  love  your 
godmother  Eve  ? 

THE  SERPENT.  I  adorc  her.  [She  licks  Eve's  neck 
with  her  double  tongue.] 

EVE    [petting  her]    Eve's   wonderful   darling   snake. 


6  In  the  Beginning  Parti 

Eve  will  never  be  lonely  now  that  her  snake  can  talk  to 
her. 

THE  SNAKE.  I  Can  talk  of  many  things.  I  am  very 
wise.  It  was  I  who  whispered  the  word  to  you  that  you 
did  not  know.    Dead.    Death.    Die. 

EVE  [shuddering']  Why  do  you  remind  me  of  it?  I 
forgot  it  when  I  saw  your  beautiful  hood.  You  must 
not  remind  me  of  unhappy  things. 

THE  SERPENT.  Death  is  not  an  unhappy  thing  when 
you  have  learnt  how  to  conquer  it, 

EVE.     How  can  I  conquer  it.? 

THE  SEEPENT.     By  another  thing,  called  birth. 

EVE.     What.?     [Trying  to  pronou/nce  it]  B-hirth? 

THE  SERPENT.     Yes,  birth. 

EVE.     What  is  birth? 

THE  SERPENT.  The  Serpent  never  dies.  Some  day 
you  shall  see  me  come  out  of  this  beautiful  skin,  a  new 
snake  with  a  new  and  lovelier  skin.    That  is  birth. 

EVE.     I  have  seen  that.    It  is  wonderful. 

THE  SERPENT.  If  I  can  do  that,  what  can  I  not  do? 
I  tell  you  I  am  very  subtle.  When  you  and  Adam  talk, 
I  hear  you  say  "Why?"  Always  "Why?"  You  see 
things ;  and  you  say  "Why  ?"  But  I  dream  things  that 
never  were;  and  I  say  "Why  not?"  I  made  the  word 
dead  to  describe  my  old  skin  that  I  cast  when  I  am  re- 
newed.   I  call  that  renewal  being  born. 

EVE.     Born  is  a  beautiful  word. 

THE  SERPENT.  Why  uot  be  born  again  and  again  as 
I  am,  new  and  beautiful  every  time? 

EVE.     I !    It  does  not  happen :  that  is  why. 

THE  SERPENT.  That  is  how ;  but  it  is  not  why.  Why 
not? 

EVE.  But  I  should  not  like  it.  It  would  be  nice  to  be 
new  again;  but  my  old  skin  would  lie  on  the  ground 


Act  I  In  the  Beginning  7 

looking  just  like  me;  and  A.dam  would  see  it  shrivel  up 
and — 

THE  SERPENT.  No.  He  need  not.  There  is  a  second 
birth. 

EVE.     A  second  birth? 

THE  SERPENT.  Listen.  I  will  tell  you  a  great  secret. 
I  am  very  subtle;  and  I  have  thought  and  thought  an  J 
thought.  And  I  am  very  wilful,  and  must  have  what 
I  want;  and  I  have  willed  and  willed  and  willed.  And 
I  have  eaten  strange  things :  stones  and  apples  that  you 
are  afraid  to  eat. 

EVE.     You  dared. 

THE  SERPENT.  I  dared  everything.  And  at  last  I 
found  a  way  of  gathering  together  a  part  of  the  life  in 
my  body — 

EVE.     What  is  the  life.? 

THE  SERPENT.  That  which  makes  the  difference  be- 
tween the  dead  fawn  and  the  live  one. 

EVE.  What  a  beautiful  word!  And  what  a  wonder- 
ful thing!    Life  is  the  loveliest  of  all  the  new  words. 

THE  SERPENT.  Yes :  it  was  by  meditating  on  Life 
that  I  gained  the  power  to  do  miracles. 

EVE.     Miracles.'^     Another  new  word. 

THE  SERPENT.  A  miracle  is  an  impossible  thing  that 
is  nevertheless  possible.  Something  that  never  could 
happen,  and  yet  does  happen. 

EVE.     Tell  me  some  miracle  that  you  have  done. 

THE  SERPENT.  I  gathered  a  part  of  the  life  in  my 
body,  and  shut  it  into  a  tiny  white  case  made  of  the 
stones  I  had  eaten. 

EVE.     And  what  good  was  that  ? 

THE  SERPENT.  I  shewed  the  little  case  to  the  sun,  and 
left  it  in  its  warmth.  And  it  burst;  and  a  little  snake 
came  out ;  and  it  became  bigger  and  bigger  from  day  to 
day  until  it  was  as  big  as  I.    That  was  the  second  birth. 


8  In  the  Beginning  Parti 

EVE.  Oh!  That  is  too  wonderful.  It  stirs  inside 
me.    It  hurts. 

THE  SERPENT.  It  nearly  tore  me  asunder.  Yet  I  am 
alive,  and  can  burst  my  skin  and  jenew  myself  as  before. 
Soon  there  will  be  as  many  snake>  in  Eden  as  there  are 
scales  on  my  body.  Then  death  will  not  matter:  this 
snake  and  that  snake  will  die;  but  the  snakes  will  live. 

EVE.  But  the  rest  of  us  will  die  sooner  or  later,  like 
the  fawn.  And  then  there  will  be  nothing  but  snakes, 
snakes,  snakes  everywhere. 

THE  SERPENT.  That  must  not  be.  I  worship  you. 
Eve.  I  must  have  something  to  worship.  Something 
quite  different  to  myself,  like  you.  There  must  be  some- 
thing greater  than  the  snake. 

EVE.  Yes:  it  must  not  be.  Adam  must  not  perish. 
You  are  very  subtle :  tell  me  what  to  do. 

THE  SERPENT.  Think.  Will.  Eat  the  dust.  Lick 
the  white  stone :  bite  the  apple  you  dread.  The  sun  will 
give  life. 

EVE.  I  do  not  trust  the  sun.  I  will  give  life  myself. 
I  will  tear  another  Adam  from  my  body  if  I  tear  my 
body  to  pieces  in  the  act. 

THE  SERPENT.  Do.  Dare  it.  Everything  is  pos- 
sible: everything.  Listen.  I  am  old.  I  am  the  old 
serpent,  older  than  Adam,  older  than  Eve.  I  remember 
Lilith,  who  came  before  Adam  and  Eve.  I  was  her 
darling  as  I  am  yours.  She  was  alone:  there  was  no 
man  with  her.  She  saw  death  as  you  saw  it  when  the 
fawn  fell ;  and  she  knew  then  that  she  must  find  out  how 
to  renew  herself  and  cast  the  skin  like  me.  She  had  a 
mighty  will :  she  strove  and  strove  and  willed  and  willed 
for  more  moons  than  there  are  leaves  on  all  the  trees  of 
the  frp^rden.  Her  pangs  were  terrible :  her  groans  drove 
sleep  from  Eden.  She  said  it  must  never  be  again :  that 
the  burden  of  renewing  life  was  past  bearing:  that  it 


Act  I  In  the  Beginning  9 

was  too  much  for  one.  And  when  she  cast  the  skin,  lo ! 
there  was  not  one  new  Lilith  but  two:  one  like  herself, 
the  other  like  Adam.  You  were  the  one :  Adam  was  the 
other. 

EVE.  But  why  did  she  divide  into  two,  and  make  us 
different  ? 

THE  SERPENT.  I  tell  you  the  labor  is  too  much  for 
one.    Two  must  share  it. 

EVE.  Do  you  mean  that  Adam  must  share  it  with 
me?  He  will  not.  He  cannot  bear  pain,  nor  take  trouble 
with  his  body. 

THE  SERPENT.  He  need  not.  There  will  be  no  pain 
for  him.  He  will  implore  you  to  let  him  do  his  share. 
He  will  be  in  your  power  through  his  desire. 

EVE.  Then  I  will  do  it.  But  how.?  How  did  Lilith 
work  this  miracle.'^ 

THE  SERPENT.     She  imagined  it. 

EVE.     What  is  imagined? 

THE  SERPENT.  She  told  it  to  me  as  a  mervellous 
story  of  something  that  never  happened  to  a  Lilith  that 
never  was.  She  did  not  know  then  that  imagination  is 
the  beginning  of  creation.  You  imagine  what  you  de- 
sire ;  you  will  what  you  imagine ;  and  at  last  you  create 
what  you  will. 

EVE.     How  can  I  create  out  of  nothing? 

THE  SERPENT.  Everything  must  have  been  created 
out  of  nothing.  Look  at  that  thick  roll  of  hard  flesh 
on  your  strong  arm!  That  was  not  always  there:  you 
could  not  climb  a  tree  when  I  first  saw  you.  But  you 
willed  and  tried  and  willed  and  tried;  and  your  will 
created  out  of  nothing  the  roll  on  your  arm  until  you 
had  your  desire,  and  could  draw  yourself  up  with  one 
hand  and  seat  yourself  on  the  bough  that  was  above 
3^our  head. 

EVE.     That  was  practice. 


10  In  the  Beginning  Parti 

THE  SERPENT.  Tilings  wear  out  by  practice:  they 
do  not  grow  by  it.  Your  hair  streams  in  the  wind  as  if 
it  were  trying  to  stretch  itself  further  and  further.  But 
it  does  not  grow  longer  for  all  its  practice  in  streaming, 
because  you  have  not  willed  it  so.  When  Lilith  told  me 
what  she  had  imagined  in  our  silent  language  (  for  there 
were  no  words  then)  I  bade  her  desire  it  and  will  it;  and 
then,  to  our  great  wonder,  the  thing  she  had  desired 
and  willed  created  itself  in  her  under  the  urging  of  her 
will.  Then  I  too  willed  to  renew  myself  as  two  instead 
of  one ;  and  after  many  days  the  miracle  happened,  and 
I  burst  from  my  skin  with  another  snake  interlaced  with 
me;  and  now  there  are  two  imaginations,  two  desires, 
two  wills  to  create  with. 

EVE.  To  desire,  to  imagine,  to  will,  to  create.  That 
is  too  long  a  story.  Find  me  one  word  for  it  all :  you, 
who  are  so  clever  at  words. 

THE  SERPENT.  In  One  word,  to  conceive.  That  is  the 
word  that  means  both  the  beginning  in  imagination  and 
the  end  in  creation. 

EVE.  Find  me  a  word  for  the  story  Lilith  imagined 
and  told  you  in  your  silent  language :  the  stor}^  that  was 
too  wonderful  to  be  true,  and  yet  came  true. 

THE  SERPENT.       A  pOCm. 

EVE,  Find  me  another  word  for  what  Lilith  was  to 
me. 

THE  SERPENT.     She  was  your  mother. 
EVE.     And  Adam's  mother.? 

THE  SERPENT.       YcS. 

EVE  ]^about  to  rise"]  I  will  go  and  tell  Adam  to  con- 
ceive. 

THE  SERPENT  [laughs']  !  !  ! 

EVE  [jarred  and  startled']  What  a  hateful  noise! 
What  is  the  matter  with  you.?  No  one  has  ever  uttered 
sudh  a  sound  before. 


Act  I  In  the  Beginning  11 

THE  SEEPENT.     Adam  cannot  conceive. 

EVE.     Why.? 

THE  SEEPENT.  Lilith  did  not  imagine  him  so.  He 
can  imagine:  he  can  will:  he  can  desire:  he  can  gather 
his  life  together  for  a  great  spring  towards  creation: 
he  can  create  all  things  except  one ;  and  that  one  is  his 
own  kind. 

EVE.     Why  did  Lilith  keep  this  from  him? 

THE  SERPENT.  Because  if  he  could  do  that  he  could 
do  without  Eve. 

EVE      That  is  true.    It  is  I  who  must  conceive. 

THE  SERPENT.     Yes.    By  that  he  is  tied  to  you. 

EVE.     And  I  to  him ! 

THE  SERPENT.     Yes,  Until  you  create  another  Adam. 

EVE.  I  had  not  thought  of  that.  You  are  very 
subtle.  But  if  I  create  another  Eve  he  may  turn  to  her 
and  do  without  me.  I  will  not  create  any  Eves,  only 
Adams. 

THE  SERPENT.  They  cannot  renew  themselves  with- 
out Eves.  Sooner  or  later  you  will  die  like  the  fawn; 
and  the  new  Adams  will  be  unable  to  create  without  new 
Eves.  You  can  imagine  such  an  end;  but  you  cannot 
desire  it,  therefore  cannot  will  it,  therefore  cannot  create 
Adams  only.        * 

EVE.  If  I  am  to  die  like  the  fawn,  why  should  not 
the  rest  die  too?    What  do  I  care? 

THE  SERPENT.  Life  must  not  cease.  That  comes 
before  everything.  It  is  silly  to  say  you  do  not  care. 
You  do  care.  It  is  that  care  that  will  prompt  your 
ima^nation ;  inflame  your  desires ;  make  your  will  irre- 
sistible ;  and  create  out  of  nothing. 

EVE  [thoughtfully']  There  can  be  no  such  thing  as 
nothing.     The  garden  is  full,  not  empty. 

THE  SERPENT.  I  had  not  thought  of  that.  That  is 
a  great  thought.    Yes :  there  is  no  such  thing  as  nothing. 


12  In  the  Beginning  Parti 

only  things  we  cannot  see.  The  chameleon  eats  the 
air. 

EVE.  I  have  another  thought :  I  must  tell  it  to  Adam. 
[Calling]  Adam !  Adam !  Coo-ee ! 

Adam's  voice.     Coo-ee! 

EVE.  This  will  please  him,  and  cure  his  fits  of  melan- 
choly, 

THE  SERPENT.  Do  not  tell  him  yet.  I  have  not  told 
you  the  great  secret. 

EVE.  What  more  is  there  to  tell?  It  is  I  who  have 
to  do  the  miracle. 

THE  SERPENT.  No  I  he,  too,  must  desire  and  will. 
But  he  must  give  his  desire  and  his  will  to  you. 

EVE.     How? 

THE  SERPENT.  That  is  the  great  secret.  Hush!  he 
is  coming. 

ADAM  [returning']  Is  there  another  voice  in  the  garden 
besides  our  voices  and  the  Voice?     I  heard  a  new  voice. 

EVE  [rising  and  running  to  him]  Only  think,  Adam! 
Our  snake  has  learnt  to  speak  by  listening  to  us. 

ADAM  [delighted]  Is  it  so?  [He  goes  past  her  to  the 
stone,  and  fondles  the  serpent,] 

THE  SERPENT  [responding  affectionately]  It  is  so, 
dear  Adam. 

EVE.  But  I  have  more  wonderful  news  than  that, 
Adam:  we  need  not  live  for  ever. 

ADAM  [dropping  the  snake*s  head  in  his  excitement] 
What!  Eve:  do  not  play  with  me  about  this.  If  only 
there  may  be  an  end  some  day,  and  yet  no  end !  If  only 
I  can  be  relieved  of  the  horror  of  having  to  endure  my- 
self for  ever!  If  only  the  care  of  this  terrible  garden 
may  pass  on  to  some  other  gardener!  If  only  the  sen- 
tinel set  by  the  Voice  can  be  relieved !  If  only  the  rest 
and  sleep  that  enable  me  to  bear  it  from  day  to  day 
could  grow  after  many  days  into  an  eternal  rest,  an 


/ 


Act  I  In  the  Beginning  13 

eternal  sleep,  then  I  could  face  my  days,  however  long 
they  may  last.  Only,  there  must  be  some  end,  some 
end :  I  am  not  strong  enough  to  bear  eternity. 

THE  SERPENT.  You  need  not  live  to  see  another  sumr 
mer;  and  yet  there  shall  be  no  end. 

ADAM.     That  cannot  be. 

THE  SERPENT.     It  cau  be. 

EVE.     It  shall  be. 

THE  SERPENT.  It  is.  Kill  me;  and  you  will  find 
another  snake  in  the  garden  tomorrow.  You  will  find 
more  snakes  than  there  are  fingers  on  your  hands. 

EVE.     I  will  make  other  Adams,  other  Eves. 

ADAM.  I  tell  you  you  must  not  make  up  stories  about 
this.    It  cannot  happen. 

THE  SERPENT.  I  cau  remember  when  you  were  your- 
self a  thing  that  could  not  happen.    Yet  you  are. 

ADAM  [struckJi  That  must  be  true.  [He  sits  down  on 
the  stone  J] 

THE  SERPENT.  I  will  tell  Evc  the  secret ;  and  she  will 
tell  it  to  you. 

ADAM.  The  secret!  [^He  turns  quickly  towards  the 
serpent,  and  in  doing  so  puts  his  foot  on  something 
sharp.]     Oh ! 

EVE.     What  is  it? 

ADAM  [^ruhhing  his  foot^  A  thistle.  And  there,  next 
to  it,  a  briar.  And  nettles,  too!  I  am  tired  of  pulling 
these  things  up  to  keep  tihe  garden  pleasant  for  us  for 
ever. 

THE  SERPENT.  They  do  not  grow  very  fast.  They 
will  not  overrun  the  whole  garden  for  a  long  time:  not 
until  you  have  laid  down  your  burden  and  gone  to  sleep 
for  ever.  Why  should  you  trouble  yourself?  Let  the 
new  Adams  clear  a  place  for  themselves. 

ADAM.     That  is  very  true.     You  must  tell  us  your 


14  In  the  Beginning  Parti 

secret.  You  see,  Eve,  what  a  splendid  thing  it  is  not  to 
have  to  Hve  for  ever. 

EVE  [throxving  herself  down  discontentedly  and  pluck- 
mg  at  the  grass]  That  is  so  like  a  man.  The  moment 
you  find  we  need  not  last  for  ever,  you  talk  as  if  we  were 
going  to  end  today.  You  must  clear  away  some  of  those 
horrid  things,  or  we  shall  be  scratched  and  stung  when- 
ever we  forget  to  look  where  we  are  stepping. 

ADAM.  Oh  yes,  some  of  them,  of  course.  But  only 
some.    I  will  clear  them  away  tomorrow. 

THE  SERPENT  [laughs']  !  !  ! 

ADAM.     That  is  a  funny  noise  to  make.     I  like  it. 

EVE.     I  do  not.    Why  do  you  make  it  again? 

THE  SERPENT.  Adam  has  invented  something  new. 
He  has  invented  tomorrow.  You  will  invent  things  every 
day  now  that  the  burden  of  immortality  is  lifted  from 
you. 

EVE.     Immortality?    What  is  that? 

THE  SERPENT.  My  ucw  word  for  having  to  live  for 
ever. 

EVE.  The  serpent  has  made  a  beautiful  word  for 
being.    Living. 

ADAM.  Make  me  a  beautiful  word  for  doing  things 
tomorrow;  for  that  surely  is  a  great  and  blessed 
invention. 

THE  SERPENT.     Procrastination. 

EVE.  That  is  a  sweet  word.  I  wish  I  had  a  serpent's 
tongue. 

THE  SERPENT.  That  may  come  too.  Everything  is 
possible. 

ADAM  [springing  up  in  sudden  terror]  Oh! 

EVE.     What  is  the  matter  now? 

ADAM.     M}^  rest !    My  escape  from  life. 

THE  SERPENT.     Death.    That  Is  the  word. 


Act  I  In  the  Beginning  15 

ADAM.  There  is  a  terrible  danger  in  this  procrastina- 
tion. 

EVE.     What  danger? 

ADAM.  If  I  put  off  death  until  tomorrow,  I  shall 
never  die.  There  is  no  such  day  as  tomorrow,  and  never 
can  be. 

THE  SERPENT.  I  am  vcrj  subtle;  but  Man  is  deeper 
in  his  thought  than  I  am.  The  woman  knows  that  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  nothing:  the  man  knows  that  there 
is  no  such  day  as  tomorrow.    I  do  well  to  worship  them. 

ADAM.  If  I  am  to  undertake  death,  I  must  appoint 
a  real  day,  not  a  tomorrow.    When  shall  I  die. 

EVE,  You  may  die  when  I  have  made  another  Adam. 
Not  before.  But  then,  as  soon  as  you  like.  iShe  risesy 
and  passing  behind  him,  strolls  off  carelessly  to  the  tree 
and  leans  against  it,  stroking  a  ring  of  the  snake, Ji 

ADAM.     There  need  be  no  hurry  even  then. 

EVE.     I  see  you  will  put  it  off  until  tomorrow. 

ADAM.  And  you?  Will  you  die  the  moment  you  have 
made  a  new  Eve  ? 

EVE.  Why  should  I?  Are  you  eager  to  be  rid  of 
me?  Only  just  now  you  wanted  me  to  sit  still  and  never 
move  lest  I  should  stumble  and  die  like  ijhe  fawn.  Now 
you  no  longer  care. 

ADAM.     It  does  not  matter  so  much  now. 

EVE  [angrily  to  the  snake]  This  death  that  you  have 
brought  into  the  garden  is  an  evil  thing.  He  wants  me 
to  die. 

THE  SERPENT  [to  Adani]  Do  you  want  her  to  die? 

ADAM.  No.  It  is  I  who  am  to  die.  Eve  must  not 
die  before  me.    I  should  be  lonel\'. 

EVE.     You  could  get  one  of  the  new  Eves. 

ADAM.  That  is  true.  But  they  might  not  be  quite 
the  same.     They  could  not:  I  feel  sure  of  that.     They 


16  In  the  Beginning  Parti 

would  not  have  the  same  memories.  They  would  be — I 
want  a  word  for  them. 

THE  SERPENT.     Strangers. 

ADAM.     Yes:  that  is  a  good  hard  word.     Strangers. 

EVE.  When  there  are  new  Adams  and  Eves  we  shall 
live  in  a  garden  of  strangers.  We  shall  need  each  other. 
[She  comes  quickly  behind  him  and  turns  up  his  face  to 
her,}     Do  not  forget  that,  Adam.    Never  forget  it. 

ADAM.  Why  should  I  forget  it?  It  is  I  who  have 
thought  of  it. 

EVE.  I,  too,  have  thought  of  something.  The  fawn 
stumbled  and  fell  and  died.  But  you  could  come  softly 
up  behind  me  and  \^she  suddenly  pounces  on  his  shoulders 
and  throws  him  forward  on  his  face']  throw  me  down  so 
that  I  should  die.  I  should  not  dare  to  sleep  if  there 
were  no  reason  why  you  should  not  make  me  die. 

ADAM  [scrambling  up  in  horror]  Make  you  die!  !  ! 
What  a  frightful  thought ! 

THE  SERPENT.     Kill,  kill,  kill,  kill.    That  is  the  word. 

EVE.  The  new  Adams  and  Eves  might  kill  us.  I 
shall  not  make  them.  [She  sits  on  the  rock  and  pulls 
him  down  beside  her,  clasping  him  to  her  with  her  right 
arm,] 

THE  SERPENT.  You  must.  For  if  you  do  not  there 
will  be  an  end. 

ADAM.  No;  they  will  not  kill  us:  they  will  feel  as  I 
do.  There  is  jsomething  against  it.  The  Voice  in  the 
garden  will  tell  them  that  they  must  not  kill,  as  it  tells 
me. 

THE  SERPENT.  The  voice  in  the  garden  is  your  own 
voice. 

ADAM.  It  Is ;  and  it  Is  not.  It  is  something  greater 
than  me :  I  am  only  a  part  of  it. 

EVE.     The  Voice  does  not  tell  me  not  to  kill  you.    Yet 


Act  I  In  the  Beginning  17 

I  do  not  want  you  to  die  before  me.  No  voice  is  needed 
to  make  me  feel  that. 

ADAM  [throwing  his  arm  round  her  shoulder  with  an 
expression  of  anguish}  Oh  no :  that  is  plain  without  any 
voice.  There  is  something  that  holds  us  together,  some- 
thing that  has  no  word — 

THE  SERPENT.     Love.     Lovc.     Love. 

ADAM.     That  is  too  short  a  word  for  so  long  a  thing. 

THE  SERPENT  [laughs']  !  !  ! 

EVE  [turning  impatiently  to  the  snake]  That  heart- 
biting  sound  again!    Do  not  do  it.    Why  do  you  do  it? 

THE  SERPENT.  Love  may  be  too  long  a  word  for  so 
short  a  thing  soon.  But  w*hen  it  is  short  it  will  be  very 
sweet. 

ADAM  [ruminating]  You  puzzle  me.  My  old  trouble 
was  heavy ;  but  it  was  simple.  These  wonders  that  you 
promise  to  do  may  tangle  up  my  being  before  they  bring 
me  the  gift  of  death.  I  was  troubled  with  the  burden 
of  eternal  being;  but  I  was  not  confused  in  my  mind. 
If  I  did  not  know  that  I  loved  Eve,  at  least  I  did  not 
know  that  she  might  cease  to  love  me,  and  come  to  love 
some  other  Adam  and  desire  my  death.  Can  you  find  a 
name  for  that  knowledge? 

THE  SERPENT.     Jcalousy.     Jcalousy.     Jealousy. 

ADAM.     A  hideous  word. 

EVE  [shaking  him^  Adam :  you  must  not  brood.  You 
think  too  much. 

ADAM  [angrily]  How  can  I  help  brooding  when  the 
future  has  become  uncertain?  Anything  is  better  than 
uncertainty.  Life  has  become  uncertain.  Love  is  un- 
certain.   Have  you  a  word  for  this  new  misery? 

THE  SERPENT.     Fear.    Fear.    Fear. 

ADAM.     Have  you  a  remedy  for  it? 

THE  SERPENT.     Yes.     Hope.     Hope.     Hope. 

ADAM.     What  is  hope? 


18  In  the  Beginning  Parti 

THE  SEEPENT.  As  loDg  as  jou  do  not  know  the 
future  JOU  do  not  know  that  it  will  not  be  happier  than 
the  past.    That  is  hope. 

ADAM.  It  does  not  console  me.  Fear  is  stronger  in 
me  than  hope.  I  must  have  certainty.  [^He  rises  threat- 
eningly.~\  Give  it  to  me ;  or  I  will  kill  you  when  next  I 
catch  you  asleep. 

EVE  [^throwing  her  arms  round  the  serpentl  My  beau- 
tiful snake.  Oh  no.  How  can  you  even  think  such  a 
horror? 

ADAM.  Fear  will  drive  me  to  anything.  The  serpent 
gave  me  fear.  Let  it  now  give  me  certainty  or  go  in 
fear  of  me. 

THE  SERPENT.  Bind  the  future  by  your  will.  Make 
a  vow. 

ADAM.     What  is  a  vow? 

THE  SEEPENT.  Choose  a  day  for  your  death;  and 
resolve  to  die  on  that  day.  Then  death  is  no  longer 
uncertain  but  certain.  Let  Eve  vow  to  love  you  until 
your  death.     Then  love  will  be  no  longer  uncertain. 

ADAM.  Yes:  that  is  splendid:  that  will  bind  the 
future. 

EVE  [disfleasedy  turning  away  from  the  serpent^  But 
it  will  destroy  hope. 

ADAM  [_angrily~\  Be  silent,  woman.  Hope  is  wicked. 
Happiness  is  wicked.     Certainty  is  blessed. 

THE  SEEPENT.  What  is  wickcd?  You  have  invented 
a  word. 

ADAM.  Whatever  I  fear  to  do  is  wicked.  Listen  to 
me,  Eve;  and  you,  snake,  listen  too,  that  your  memory 
may  hold  my  vow.  I  will  live  a  thousand  sets  of  the  four 
seasons — 

THE  SEEPENT.     Years.    Years. 

ADAM.     I  will  live  a  thousand  years ;  and  then  I  will 


Act  I  In  the  Beginning  19 

endure  no  more :  I  will  die  and  take  my  rest.  And  I  will 
love  Eve  all  that  time  and  no  other  woman. 

EVE.  And  if  Adam  keeps  his  vow  I  will  love  no  other 
man  until  he  dies. 

THE  SERPENT.  You  have  both  invented  marriage. 
And  what  he  will  be  to  you  and  not  to  any  other  woman 
is  husband ;  and  what  you  will  be  to  him  and  not  to  any 
other  man  is  wife. 

ADAM  [instinctively  moving  his  hand  towards  her\ 
Husband  and  wife. 

EVE  [slipping  her  hand  into  his'\  Wife  and  husband. 

THE  SERPENT  \laughs~\  !  !  ! 

EVE  [snatching  herself  loose  from  Adami  Do  not 
make  that  odious  noise,  I  tell  you. 

ADAM.  Do  not  listen  to  her:  the  noise  Is  good:  it 
lightens  my  heart.  You  are  a  jolly  snake.  But  you 
have  not  made  a  vow  yet.    What  vow  do  you  make? 

THE  SERPENT.     I  make  no  vows.     I  take  my  chance. 

ADAM.     Chance?    What  does  that  mean? 

THE  SERPENT.  It  mcans  that  I  fear  certainty  as  you 
fear  uncertainty.  It  means  that  nothing  is  certain  but 
uncertainty.  If  I  bind  the  future  I  bind  my  will.  If  I 
bind  my  will  I  strangle  creation. 

EVE.  Creation  must  not  be  strangled.  I  tell  you  I 
will  create,  though  I  tear  myself  to  pieces  in  the  act. 

ADAM.  Be  silent,  both  of  jon.  I  will  bind  the  future. 
I  will  be  delivered  from  fear.  [To  Eve]  We  have  made 
our  vows ;  and  if  you  will  create,  you  shall  create  within 
the  bounds  of  those  vows.  You  shall  not  listen  to  that 
snake  any  more.  Come  [he  seizes  her  hy  the  hair  to  drag 
her  awayl . 

EVE.  Let  me  go,  you  fool.  It  has  not  yet  told  me 
the  secret. 

ADAM  [releasing  her]  That  is  true.     What  is  a  fool? 

EVE.     I  do  not  know:  \h^  word  came  to  me.     It  was 


20  In  the  Beginning  Parti 

what  you  are  when  you  forget  and  brood  and  are  filled 
with  fear.    Let  us  listen  to  the  snake. 

ADAM.  No:  I  am  afraid  of  it.  I  feel  as  if  the 
ground  were  giving  way  under  my  feet  when  it  speaks. 
Do  you  stay  and  listen  to  it. 

THE  SEEPENT  [laughs^  !  !  ! 

ADAM  [brightenmg^  That  noise  takes  away  fear. 
Funny.  The  snake  and  the  woman  are  going  to  whisper 
secrets.  {^He  chuckles  and  goes  amay  slowly,  laughing 
his  -first  laughJ] 

EVE.  Now  the  secret.  The  secret.  [She  sits  on  the 
rock  and  throws  her  arms  round  the  serpent,  who  begins 
whispering  to  her,~\ 

[Eve^s  face  lights  up  with  intense  interest,  which 
increases  untU  an  expression  of  overwhelming  repug- 
nance takes  its  place.    She  buries  her  face  in  her  hands,'] 


ACT  II 

A  few  centuries  later.  Morning.  An  oasis  in  Mesopo- 
tamia, Close  at  hand  the  end  of  a  log  house  abuts  on 
a  kitchen  garden,  Adam  is  digging  in  the  middle  of  the 
garden.  On  his  right,  Eve  sits  on  a  stool  in  the  shadow 
of  a  tree  by  the  doorway,  spinning  flax.  Her  wheel, 
which  she  turns  by  hand,  is  a  large  disc  of  heavy  wood, 
practically  a  fly-wheel.  At  the  opposite  side  of  the 
garden  is  a  thorn  brake  with  a  passage  right  through  it 
barred  by  a  hurdle. 

The  two  are  scantily  and  carelessly  dressed  in  rough 
linen  and  leaves.  They  have  lost  their  youth  and  grace; 
and  Adam  has  an  unlcept  beard  and  jaggedly  cut  hair; 
but  they  are  strong  and  in  the  prime  of  life.  Adam 
looks  worried,  like  a  farmer.  Eve,  better  humored  {hav- 
ing given  up  worrying),  sits  and  spins  and  thinks, 

A  man's  voice.     Hallo,  mother ! 

EVE  [looking  across  the  garden  towards  the  hurdle'] 
Here  is  Cain. 

ADAM  [uttering  a  grunt  of  disgusf]  !  !  !  [He  goes  on 
digging  without  raising  his  head.] 

[Cam  kicks  the  hurdle  out  of  his  way,  and  strides  into 
the  garden.  In  pose,  voice,  and  dress  he  is  insist  en  tly  war- 
like. He  is  equipped  with  huge  spear  and  broad  brass- 
bound  leather  shield;  his  casque  is  a  tiger^s  head  with 
bulVs  horns;  he  wears  a  scarlet  cloak  with  gold  brooch 
over  a  lion's  skin  with  the  claws  dangling;  his  feet  are 
in  sandals  with  brass  ornaments;  his  shins  are  in  brass 

21 


22  In  the  Beginning  Parti 

greaves;  and  his  bristling  military  moustache  glistens 
with  oil.  To  his  parents  he  has  the  self-assertive,  not- 
quite-at-ease  manner  of  a  revolted  son  who  knows  that  he 
is  not  forgiven  nor  approved  of  J] 

CAi>;  [to  Adairi]  Still  digging?  Always  dig,  dig,  dig. 
Sticking  in  the  old  furrow.  No  progress !  no  advanced 
ideas !  no  adventures !  What  should  I  be  if  I  had  stuck 
to  the  digging  you  taught  me  ? 

ADAM.  What  are  you  now,  with  your  shield  and 
spear,  and  your  brother's  blood  crying  from  the  ground 
against  you? 

CAIN.  I  am  the  first  murderer :  you  are  only  the  first 
man.  Anybody  could  be  the  first  man:  it  is  as  easy  as 
to  be  the  first  cabbage.  To  be  the  first  murderer  one 
must  be  a  man  of  spirit, 

ADAM.  Begone.  Leave  us  in  peace.  The  world  is 
wide  enough  to  keep  us  apart. 

EVE.  Why  do  you  want  to  drive  him  away?  He  is 
mine.  I  made  him  out  of  my  own  body.  I  want  to  see 
my  work  sometimes. 

ADAM.  You  made  Abel  also.  He  killed  Abel.  Can 
you  bear  to  look  at  him  after  that? 

CAIN.  Whose  fault  was  it  that  I  killed  Abel?  Who 
invented  killing?  Did  I?  No:  he  invented  it  himself. 
T  followed  your  teaching.  I  dug  and  dug  and  dug. 
I  cleared  away  the  thistles  and  briars.  I  ate  the  fruits 
of  the  earth.  I  lived  in  the  sweat  of  my  brow,  as  you 
do.  I  was  a  fool.  But  Abel  was  a  discoverer,  «i 
man  of  ideas,  of  spirit :  a  true  Progressive.  He  was  the 
discoverer  of  blood.  He  was  the  inventor  of  killing. 
He  found  out  that  the  fire  of  the  sun  could  be  brought 
down  by  a  dewdrop.  He  invented  the  altar  to  keep  the 
fire  alive.  He  changed  the  beasts  he  killed  into  meat  by 
the  fire  on  the  altar.  He  kept  himself  alive  by  eating 
meat.    His  meal  cost  him  a  day's  glorious  health-giving 


Act  II  In  the  Beginning  23 

sport  and  an  hour's  amusing  play  with  the  fire.  You 
learnt  nothing  from  him :  3^ou  drudged  and  drudged  and 
drudged,  and  dug  and  dug  and  dug,  and  made  me  do 
the  same.  I  envied  his  happiness,  his  freedom.  I 
despised  myself  for  not  doing  as  he  did  instead  of  what 
you  did.  He  became  so  happy  that  he  shared  his  meal 
with  the  Voice  that  had  Vnispered  all  his  inventions  to 
him.  He  said  that  the  Voice  was  the  voice  of  the  fire 
that  cooked  his  food,  and  that  the  fire  that  could  cook 
could  also  eat.  It  was  true:  I  saw  the  fire  consume  the 
food  on  his  altar.  Then  I,  too,  made  an  altar,  and 
offered  my  food  on  it,  my  grains,  my  roots,  my  fruit. 
Useless:  nothing  happened.  He  laughed  at  me;  and 
then  came  my  great  idea:  why  not  kill  him  as  he  killed 
the  beasts?  I  struck;  and  he  died,  just  as  they  did. 
Then  I  gave  up  your  old  silly  drudging  ways,  and  lived 
as  he  had  lived,  by  the  chase,  by  the  killing,  and  by  the 
fire.  Am  I  not  better  than  you?  stronger,  happier^ 
freer  ? 

ADAM.  You  are  not  stronger:  you  are  shorter  in  the 
wind:  you  cannot  endure.  You  have  made  the  beasts 
afraid  of  us ;  and  the  snake  has  invented  poison  to  pro- 
tect herself  against  you.  I  fear  you  myself.  If  you 
take  a  step  towards  your  mother  with  that  spear  of 
yours  I  will  strike  you  with  my  spade  as  you  struck 
Abel. 

EVE.     He  will  not  strike  me.    He  loves  me. 

ADAM.     He  loved  his  brother.     But  he  killed  him. 

CAIN.  I  do  not  want  to  kill  women.  I  do  not  want  to 
kill  my  mother.  And  for  her  sake  I  will  not  kill  you, 
though  I  could  send  this  spear  through  you  without 
coming  within  reach  of  your  spade.  But  for  her,  1 
could  not  resist  the  sport  of  trying  to  kill  you,  in  spite 
of  my  fear  that  you  would  kill  me.  I  have  striven  with 
a  boar  and  with  a  lion  as  to  which  of  us  should  kill  the 


24  In  the  Beginning  Parti 

other,  I  have  striven  with  a  man:  spear  to  spear  and 
shield  to  shield.  It  is  terrible;  but  there  is  no  joy  like 
it.  I  call  it  fighting.  He  who  has  never  fought  has 
never  lived.  That  is  what  has  brought  me  to  my  mother 
today. 

ADAM.  What  have  you  to  do  with  one  another  now? 
She  is  the  creator,  you  the  destroyer. 

CAIN.  How  can  I  destroy  unless  she  creates?  I  want 
her  to  create  more  and  more  men:  aye,  and  more  and 
more  women,  that  they  may  in  turn  create  more  men.  I 
have  imagined  a  glorious  poem  of  many  men,  or  more 
men  than  there  are  leaves  on  a  thousand  trees.  I  will 
divide  them  into  two  great  hosts.  One  of  them  I  will 
lead ;  and  the  other  will  be  led  by  the  man  I  fear  most 
and  desire  to  fight  and  kill  most.  And  each  host  shall 
try  to  kill  the  other  host.  Think  of  that!  all  those 
multitudes  of  men  fighting,  fighting,  killing,  killing! 
The  four  rivers  running  with  blood!  The  shouts  of 
triumph!  the  howls  of  rage!  the  curses  of  despair!  the 
shrieks  of  torment!  That  will  be  life  indeed:  life  lived 
to  the  very  marrow :  burning,  overwhelming  life.  Every 
man  who  has  not  seen  it,  heard  it,  felt  it,  risked  it,  will 
feel  a  humbled  fool  In  the  presence  of  the  man  who  has. 

EVE.  And  I !  I  am  to  be  a  mere  convenience  to  make 
men  for  you  to  kill ! 

ADAM.    Or  to  kill  you,  you  fool. 

CAIN.  Mother :  the  making  of  men  is  your  right,  your 
risk,  your  agony,  your  glory,  your  triumph.  You  make 
my  father  here  your  mere  convenience,  as  you  call  it, 
for  that.  He  has  to  dig  for  you,  sweat  for  you,  plod 
for  you,  like  the  ox  who  helps  him  to  tear  up  the  ground 
or  the  ass  who  carries  his  burdens  for  him.  No  woman 
shall  make  me  live  my  father's  life.  I  will  hunt :  I  will 
fight  and  strive  to  the  very  bursting  of  my  sinews. 
When  I  have  slain  the  boar  at  the  risk  of  my  life,  I  will 


Act  II  In  the  Beginning  25 

throw  it  to  mj  woman  to  cook,  and  give  her  a  morsel  of 
it  for  her  pains.  She  shall  have  no  other  food;  and  that 
will  make  her  mj  slave.  And  the  man  that  slays  me 
^hall  have  her  for  his  booty.  Man  shall  be  the  master 
of  Woman,  not  her  baby  and  her  drudge. 

Adam  throws  down  his  spade,  and  stands  looking 
darkly  at  Eve. 

EVE.  Are  you  tempted,  Adam?  Does  this  seem  a 
better  thing  to  you  than  love  between  us. 

CAIN.  What  does  he  know  of  love?  Only  when  he 
has  fought,  when  he  has  faced  terror  and  death,  when 
he  has  striven  to  the  spending  of  the  last  rally  of  his 
strength,  can  he  know  what  it  is  to  rest  in  love  in  the 
arms  of  a  woman.  Ask  that  woman  whom  you  made, 
who  is  also  my  wife,  whether  she  would  have  me  as  I  was 
in  the  days  when  I  followed  the  ways  of  Adam,  and  was 
a  digger  and  a  drudge  ? 

EVE  [angrily  throwing  down  her  distaff]  What !  You 
dare  come  here  boasting  about  that  good-for-nothing 
Lua,  the  worst  of  daughters  and  the  worst  of  wives! 
You  her  master!  You  are  more  her  slave  than  Adam's 
ox  or  your  own  sheep-dog.  Forsooth,  when  you  have 
slain  the  boar  at  the  risk  of  your  life,  you  will  throw 
her  a  morsel  of  it  for  her  pains !  Ha !  Poor  wretch :  do 
you  think  I  do  not  know  her,  and  know  you,  better  than 
that?  Do  you  risk  your  life  when  you  trap  the  ermine 
and  the  sable  ani  the  blue  fox  to  hang  on  her  lazy 
shoulders  and  make  her  look  more  like  an  animal  than 
a  woman?  When  you  have  to  snare  the  little  tender 
birds  because  it  is  too  much  trouble  for  'her  to  chew 
honest  food,  how  much  of  a  great  warrior  do  you  feel 
then  ?  You  slay  the  tiger  at  the  risk  of  your  life ;  but 
who  gets  the  striped  skin  you  have  run  that  risk  for? 
She  takes  it  to  lie  on,  and  flings  you  the  carrion  flesh 
you  cannot  eat.    You  fight  because  you  think  that  your 


26  In  the  Beginning  Parti 

fighting  makes  her  admire  and  desire  you.  Fool:  she 
makes  you  fight  because  you  bring  her  the  ornaments 
and  tlie  treasures  of  those  you  have  slain,  and  because 
she  is  courted  and  propitiated  with  power  and  gold  by 
the  people  who  fear  you.  You  say  that  /  make  a  mere 
convenience  of  Adam:  I  who  spin  and  keep  the  house, 
and  bear  and  rear  children,  and  am  a  woman  and  not  a 
pet  animal  to  please  men  and  pre}^  on  them !  What  are 
you,  you  poor  slave  of  a  painted  face  and  a  bundle  of 
skunk's  fur?  You  were  a  man-child  when  I  bore  you. 
Lua  was  a  woman-child  when  I  bore  her.  What  have 
you  made  of  yourselves  ? 

CAIN  [letting  his  spear  fall  into  the  crook  of  his  shield 
arm,  and  twirling  his  moustache^  There  is  something 
higher  than  man.    There  is  hero  and  superman. 

EVE.  Superman!  You  are  no  superman:  you  are 
Anti-Man :  you  are  to  otiher  men  what  the  stoat  is  to  the 
rabbit ;  and  she  is  to  you  what  the  leech  is  to  the  stoat. 
You  despise  your  father ;  but  when  he  dies  the  world  will 
be  the  richer  because  he  lived.  When  you  die,  men  will 
say,  "He  was  a  great  warrior;  but  it  would  have  been 
better  for  the  world  if  he  had  never  been  born."  And  of 
Lua  they  will  say  not!hing ;  but  when  they  think  of  her 
they  will  spit. 

CAIN.  She  is  a  better  sort  of  woman  to  live  with  than 
you.  If  Lua  nagged  at  me  as  you  are  nagging,  and  as 
you  nag  at  Adam,  I  would  beat  her  black  and  blue  from 
head  to  foot.    I  have  done  it  too,  slave  as  you  say  I  am. 

EVE.  Yes,  because  she  looked  at  another  man.  And 
then  you  grovelled  at  her  feet,  and  cried,  and  begged 
her  to  forgive  you,  and  were  ten  times  more  her  slave 
than  ever ;  and  she,  when  she  had  finished  screaming  and 
the  pain  went  off  a  little,  she  forgave  you,  did  she  not  ? 

CAIN.  She  loved  me  more  than  ever.  That  is  the  true 
nature  of  woman. 


Act  II  In  the  Beginning  27 

EVE  \_now  pitymg  him  maternally^  Love!  You  call 
that  love!  You  call  that  the  nature  of  woman!  My 
boy:  this  is  neither  man  nor  woman  nor  love  nor  life. 
You  have  no  real  strength  in  your  bones  nor  sap  in  your 
flesh. 

CAIN.  Ha !  \_He  seizes  his  spear  and  swings  it  mus- 
cularly^ . 

EVE.  Yes:  you  have  to  twirl  a  stick  to  feel  your 
strength :  you  cannot  taste  life  without  making  it  bitter 
and  boiling  hot:  you  cannot  love  Lua  until  her  face  is 
painted,  nor  feel  the  natural  warmth  of  her  flesh  until 
you  have  stuck  a  squirrel's  fur  on  it.  You  can  feel  noth- 
ing but  a  torment,  and  believe  nothing  but  a  lie.  You 
will  not  raise  your  head  to  look  at  all  the  miracles  of 
life  that  surround  you ;  but  you  will  run  ten  miles  to  see 
a  fight  or  a  death. 

ADAM.    Enough  said.    Let  the  boy  alone. 

CAIN.    Boy !    Ha !  ha ! 

EVE  [to  Adam^  You  think,  perhaps,  that  his  way  of 
life  may  be  better  than  yours  after  all.  You  are  still 
tempted.  Well,  will  you  pamper  me  as  he  pampers  his 
woman?  Will  you  kill  tigers  and  bears  until  I  have  a 
heap  of  their  skins  to  lounge  on  ?  Shall  I  paint  my  face 
and  let  my  arms  waste  into  pretty  softness,  and  eat 
partridges  and  doves,  and  the  flesh  of  kids  whose  milk 
you  will  steal  for  me  ? 

ADAM.  You  are  hard  enough  to  bear  with  as  you  are. 
Stay  as  you  are ;  and  I  will  stay  as  I  am. 

CAIN.  You  neither  of  3"ou  know  anything  about  life. 
You  are  simple  country  folk.  You  are  the  nurses  and 
valets  of  the  oxen  and  dogs  and  asses  you  have  tamed  to 
work  for  you.  I  can  raise  you  out  of  that.  I  have  a 
plan.  Why  not  tame  men  and  women  to  work  for  us? 
Why  not  bring  them  up  from  childhood  never  to  know 
any  other  lot,  so  that  they  ma:y  believe  that  we  are  god"* 


28  In  the  Beginning  Parti 

and  that  they  are  here  only  to  make  Hfe  glorious  for  us? 

ADAM  limpresssd^  That  is  a  great  thought,  certainly. 

EVE  ^contemptuously]  Great  thought ! 

ADAM.    Well,  as  the  serpent  used  to  say,  why  not? 

EVE.  Because  I  would  not  have  such  wretches  in  my 
house.  Because  I  hate  creatures  with  two  heads,  or  with 
withered  limbs,  or  that  are  distorted  and  perverted  and 
unnatural.  I  have  told  Cain  already  that  he  is  not  a  man 
and  that  Lua  is  not  a  woman :  they  are  monsters.  And 
now  you  want  to  make  still  more  unnatural  monsters,  so 
that  you  may  be  utterly  lazy  and  worthless,  and  that 
your  tamed  human  animals  may  find  work  a  blasting 
curse.  A  fine  dream,  truly !  \_To  Cain~\.  Your  father 
is  a  fool  skin  deep;  but  you  are  a  fool  to  your  very 
marrow ;  and  your  baggage  of  a  wife  is  worse. 

ADAM.  Why  am  I  a  fool?  How  am  I  a  greater  fool 
than  you? 

EVE.  You  said  there  would  be  no  killing  because  the 
Voice  would  tell  our  children  that  they  must  not  kill. 
Why  did  it  not  tell  Cain  that? 

CAIN.  It  did;  but  I  am  not  a  child  to  be  afraid  of  a 
Voice.  The  Voice  thought  I  was  nothing  but  my  broth- 
er's keeper.  It  found  that  I  was  myself,  and  that  it 
was  for  Abel  to  be  himself  also,  and  look  to  himself. 
He  was  not  my  keeper  any  more  than  I  was  his:  why 
did  he  not  kill  me?  There  was  no  more  to  prevent  him 
than  there  was  to  prevent  me :  it  was  man  to  man ;  and  I 
won.    I  was  the  first  conqueror. 

ADAM.  What  did  the  Voice  say  to  you  when  you 
thought  all  that? 

CAIN.  Why,  it  gave  me  right.  It  said  that  my  deed 
was  as  a  mark  on  me,  a  burnt-in  mark  such  as  Abel  put 
on  his  sheep,  that  no  man  should  slay  me.  And  here  I 
stand  unslain,  whilst  the  cowards  who  have  never  slain, 
*ljje  men  who  are  content  to  be  their  brothers'  keepers 


Act  II  In  the  Beginning  29 

instead  of  their  masters,  are  despised  and  rejected,  and 
slain  like  rabbits.  He  who  bears  the  brand  of  Cain  shall 
rule  the  earth.  When  he  falls,  he  shall  be  avenged  seven- 
fold: the  Voice  has  said  it;  so  beware  how  you  plot 
against  me,  you  and  all  the  rest. 

ADAM.  Cease  your  boasting  and  bullying,  and  tell 
the  truth.  Does  not  the  Voice  tell  you  that  as  no  man 
dare  slay  you  for  murdering  your  brother,  you  ought  to 
slay  yourself? 

CAIN.     No. 

ADAM.  Then  there  is  no  such  thing  as  divine  justice, 
unless  you  are  lying. 

CAIN.  I  am  not  lying:  I  dare  all  truths.  There  is 
divine  justice.  For  the  Voice  tells  me  that  I  must  offer 
myself  to  every  man  to  be  killed  if  he  can  kill  me.  With- 
out danger  I  cannot  be  great.  That  is  how  I  pay  for 
Abel's  blood.  Danger  and  fear  follow  my  steps  every- 
where. Without  them  courage  would  have  no  sense. 
And  it  is  courage,  courage,  courage,  that  raises  the  blood 
of  life  to  crimson  splendor. 

ADAM  [picking  up  his  spade  and  preparing  to  dig 
again']  Take  yourself  off  then.  This  splendid  life  of 
yours  does  not  last  for  a  thousand  years ;  and  I  must 
last  for  a  thousand  years.  When  you  fighters  do  not 
get  killed  in  fighting  one  another  or  fighting  the  beasts, 
you  die  from  mere  evil  in  yourselves.  Your  flesh  ceases 
to  grow  like  man's  flesh:  it  grows  like  a  fungus  on  a 
tree.  Instead  of  breathing,  you  sneeze,  or  cough  up  your 
insides,  and  wither  and  perish.  Your  bowels  become 
rotten ;  your  hair  falls  from  you ;  your  teeth  blacken  and 
drop  out ;  and  you  die  before  your  time,  not  because  you 
will,  but  because  you  must.    I  will  dig,  and  live. 

CAIN.  And  pray,  what  use  is  this  thousand  years  of 
life  to  you,  you  old  vegetable?  Do  you  dig  any  better 
because  you  have  been  digging  for  hundreds  of  years? 


30  In  the  Beginning  Parti 

I  have  not  lived  as  long  as  you ;  but  I  know  all  there  is 
to  be  known,  of  the  craft  of  digging.  Bj  quitting  it  I 
have  set  myself  free  to  learn  nobler  crafts  of  which  you 
know  nothing.  I  know  the  craft  of  fighting  and  of  hunt- 
ing: in  a  word,  the  craft  of  killing.  What  certainty 
have  you  of  your  thousand  years  ?  I  could  kill  both  of 
you;  and  you  could  no  more  defend  yourselves  than  a 
couple  of  sheep.  I  spare  you;  but  others  may  kill  you. 
Why  not  live  bravely,  and  die  early  and  make  room  for 
others.?  Why,  I — I!  that  know  many  more  crafts  than 
either  of  you,  am  tired  of  myself  when  I  am  not  fighting 
or  hunting.  Sooner  than  face  a  thousand  years  of  it  I 
should  kill  myself,  as  the  Voice  sometimes  tempts  me  to 
do  already. 

ADAM.  Liar:  you  denied  just  now  that  it  called  on 
you  to  pay  for  Abel's  life  with  your  own. 

CAIN.  The  Voice  does  not  speak  to  me  as  it  does  to 
you.  I  am  a  man :  you  are  only  a  grown-up  child.  One 
does  not  speak  to  a  child  as  to  a  man.  And  a  man  does 
not  listen  and  tremble  in  silence.  He  replies:  he  makes 
the  Voice  respect  him:  in  the  end  he  dictates  what  the 
Voice  shall  say. 

ADAM.  May  your  tongue  be  accurst  for  such  blas- 
phemy ! 

EVE.  Keep  a  guard  on  your  own  tongue ;  and  do  not 
curse  my  son.  It  was  Lilith  who  did  wrong  when  she 
shared  the  labor  of  creation  so  unequally  between  man 
and  wife.  If  you,  Cain,  had  had  the  trouble  of  making 
Abel,  or  had  had  to  make  another  man  to  replace  him 
when  he  was  gone,  you  would  not  have  killed  him:  you 
would  have  risked  your  own  life  to  save  his.  That  is 
why  all  this  empty  talk  of  yours,  which  tempted  Adam 
just  now  When  he  threw  down  his  spade  and  listened  to 
you  for  a  while,  went  by  me  like  foul  wind  that  has 
passed  over  a  dead  body.    That  is  why  there  is  enmity 


Act  II  In  the  Beginning  31 

between  Woman  the  creator  and  Man  the  destroyer.  I 
know  you:  I  am  your  mother.  You  are  idle:  you  are 
selfish.  It  is  long  and  hard  and  painful  to  create  life: 
it  is  short  and  easy  to  steal  the  life  others  have  made. 
When  you  dug,  you  made  the  earth  live  and  bring  forth 
as  I  live  and  bring  forth.  It  was  for  that  that  Lilith 
set  you  free  from  the  travail  of  women,  not  for  theft 
and  murder. 

CAIN.  The  Devil  thank  her  for  it !  I  can  make  better 
use  of  my  time  than  to  play  the  husband  to  the  clay  be- 
neath my  feet. 

ADAM.    Devil.?    What  new  word  is  that? 

CAIN.  Hearken  to  me,  old  fool.  I  have  never  in  my 
soul  listened  willingly  when  you  have  told  me  of  the  Voice 
that  whispers  to  you.  There  must  be  two  Voices :  one 
that  gulls  and  despises  you,  and  another  that  trusts  and 
respects  me.  I  call  yours  the  Devil.  Mine  I  call  the 
Voice  of  God. 

ADAM.  Mine  is  the  Voice  of  Life :  yours  the  Voice  of 
Death. 

CAIN.  Be  it  so.  For  it  whispers  to  me  that  death  is 
not  really  death:  that  it  is  the  gate  of  another  life;  a 
life  infinitely  splendid  and  intense:  a  life  of  the  soul 
alone :  a  life  without  clods  or  spades,  hunger  or  fatigue — 

EVE.    Selfish  and  idle,  Cain.    I  know. 

CAIN.  Selfish,  yes :  a  life  in  which  no  man  is  his  broth- 
er's keeper,  because  his  brother  can  keep  himself.  But 
am  I  idle?  In  rejecting  your  drudgery,  have  I  not  em- 
braced evils  and  agonies  of  which  you  know  nothing? 
The  arrow  is  lifter  in  the  hand  than  the  spade ;  but  the 
energy  that  drives  it  through  the  breast  of  a  fighter  is  as 
fire  to  water  compared  with  the  strength  that  drives  the 
spade  into  the  harmless  dirty  clay.  My  strength  is  as 
the  strength  of  ten  because  my  heart  is  pure. 

ADAM.    What  is  that  word  ?    What  is  pure  ? 


32  In  the  Beginning  Parti 

CAIN.  Turned  from  the  clay.  Turned  upward  to  the 
sun,  to  the  clear  clean  heavens. 

ADAM.  The  heavens  are  empty,  child.  The  earth  is 
fruitful.  The  earth  feeds  us.  It  gives  us  the  strength 
by  which  we  made  you  and  all  mankind.  Cut  off  from 
the  clay  which  you  despise,  you  would  perish  miserably. 

CAIN.  I  revolt  against  the  clay.  I  revolt  against  the 
food.  You  say  it  gives  strength:  does  it  not  also  turn 
into  filth  and  smite  us  with  diseases?  I  revolt  against 
these  births  that  you  and  mother  are  so  proud  of.  They 
drag  us  down  to  the  level  of  the  beasts.  If  that  is  to  be 
the  last  thing  as  it  has  been  the  first,  let  mankind  perish. 
If  I  am  to  eat  like  a  bear,  if  Lua  is  to  bring  forth  cubs 
like  a  bear,  then  I  had  rather  be  a  bear  than  a  man ;  for 
the  bear  is  not  ashamed :  he  knows  no  better.  If  you  are 
content,  like  the  bear,  I  am  not.  Stay  with  the  woman 
who  gives  you  children:  I  will  go  to  the  woman  who 
gives  me  dreams.  Grope  in  the  ground  for  your  food : 
I  will  bring  it  from  the  skies  with  my  arrows,  or  strike 
it  down  as  it  roams  the  earth  in  the  pride  of  its  life.  If 
I  must  have  food  or  die,  I  will  at  least  have  it  at  as  far 
a  remove  from  the  earth  as  I  can.  The  ox  shall  make  it 
something  nobler  than  grass  before  it  comes  to  me.  And 
as  the  man  is  nobler  than  the  ox,  I  shall  some  day  let  my 
enemy  eat  the  ox ;  and  then  I  will  slay  and  eat  him. 

ADAM.    Monster!    You  hear  this.  Eve? 

EVE.  So  that  is  what  comes  of  turning  your  face  to 
the  clean  clear  heavens!  Man-eating!  Child-eating! 
For  that  is  what  it  would  come  to,  just  as  it  came  to 
lambs  and  kids  when  Abel  began  with  sheep  and  goats. 
You  are  a  poor  silly  creature  after  all.  Do  you  think 
I  never  have  these  thoughts:  I!  who  have  the  labor  of 
the  child-bearing:  I !  who  have  the  drudgery  of  prepar- 
ing the  food?  I  thought  for  a  moment  that  peAaps 
this  strong  brave  son  of  mine,  who  could  imagine  some- 


Act  II  In  the  Beginning  33 

thing  better,  and  could  desire  what  lie  imagined,  might 
also  be  able  to  will  what  he  desired  until  he  created  it. 
And  all  that  comes  of  it  is  that  he  wants  to  be  a  bear 
and  eat  children.  Even  a  bear  would  not  eat  a  man  if 
it  could  get  honey  instead. 

CAIN.  I  do  not  want  to  be  a  bear.  I  do  not  want  to 
eat  children.  I  do  not  know  what  I  want,  except  that  I 
want  to  be  something  higher  and  nobler  than  this  stupid 
old  digger  whom  Lilith  made  to  help  you  to  bring  me 
into  the  world,  and  whom  you  despise  now  that  he  has 
served  your  turn. 

ADAM  [in  sullen  rage'\  I  have  half  a  mind  to  shew  you 
that  my  spade  can  split  your  undutiful  head  open,  in 
spite  of  your  spear. 

CAIN.  Undutiful!  Ha!  ha!  [Flourishing  his  S'pear^^, 
Try  it,  old  everybody's  father.    Try  a  taste  of  fighting. 

EVE.  Peace,  peace,  you  two  fools.  Sit  down  and  be 
quiet;  and  listen  to  me.  [Adam  with  a  weary  shrug, 
throws  down  his  spade,  Cain,  with  a  laughing  one 
throws  down  his  shield  and  spear.  Both  sit  on  the 
ground'] ,  I  hardly  know  which  of  you  satisfies  me  least, 
you  with  your  dirty  digging,  or  he  with  his  dirty  killing. 
I  cannot  think  it  was  for  either  of  these  cheap  ways  of 
life  that  Lilith  set  you  free.  [To  Adam],  You  dig 
roots  and  coax  grains  out  of  the  earth :  why  do  you  not 
draw  down  a  divine  sustenance  from  the  skies?  He  steals 
and  kills  for  his  food ;  and  makes  up  idle  poems  of  life 
after  death;  and  dresses  up  his  terror-ridden  life  with 
fine  words  and  his  disease-ridden  body  with  fine  clothes, 
so  that  men  may  glorify  and  honor  him  instead  of  curs- 
ing him  as  murderer  and  thief.  All  you  men,  except 
only  Adam,  are  my  sons,  or  my  sons'  sons,  or  my  sons' 
sons'  sons:  you  all  come  to  see  me:  you  all  shew  off 
before  me:  all  your  little  wisdoms  and  accomplishments 
are  trotted  out  before  mother  Eve.     The  diggers  come : 


84  In  the  Beginning  Parti 

the  fighters  and  killers  come:  they  are  both  very  dull; 
for  they  either  complain  to  me  of  the  last  harvest,  or 
boast  to  me  of  the  last  fight;  and  one  harvest  is  just 
like  another,  and  the  last  fight  only  a  repetition  of  the 
first.  Oh,  I  have  heard  it  all  a  thousand  times.  They 
tell  me  too  of  their  last-born :  the  clever  thing  the  darling 
child  said  yesterday,  and  how  much  more  wonderful  or 
witty  or  quaint  it  is  than  any  child  that  ever  was  born 
before.  And  I  have  to  pretend  to  be  surprised,  delighted, 
interested ;  though  the  last  child  is  like  the  first,  and  has 
said  and  done  nothing  that  did  not  delight  Adam  and  me 
when  you  and  Abel  said  it.  For  you  were  the  first  chil- 
dren in  the  world,  and  filled  us  with  such  wonder  and 
delight  as  no  couple  can  ever  again  feel  while  the  world 
lasts.  When  I  can  bear  no  more,  I  go  to  our  old  garden, 
that  is  now  a  mass  of  nettles  and  thistles,  in  the  hope 
of  finding  the  serpent  to  talk  to.  But  you  have  made 
the  serpent  our  enemy:  she  has  left  the  garden,  or  is 
dead :  I  never  see  her  now.  So  I  have  to  come  back  and 
listen  to  Adam  saying  the  same  thing  for  the  ten-thou- 
sandth time,  or  to  receive  a  visit  from  the  last  great- 
great-grandson  who  has  grown  up  and  wants  to  impress 
me  with  his  importance.  Oh,  it  is  dreary,  dreary !  And 
there  is  yet  nearly  seven  hundred  years  of  it  to  endure. 

CAIN.  Poor  mother!  You  see,  life  is  too  long.  One 
tires  of  everything.  There  is  nothing  new  under  the 
sun. 

ADAM  [to  Eve,  gumpily']  Why  do  you  live  on,  if  you 
can  find  nothing  better  to  do  than  complain  ? 

EVE.    Because  there  is  still  hope. 

CAIN.    Of  what? 

EVE.  Of  the  coming  true  of  your  dreams  and  mine. 
Of  newly  created  things.  Of  better  things.  My  sons 
and  my  sons'  sons  are  not  all  diggers  and  fig'hters.  Some 
of  them  will  neither  dig  nor  fight :  they  are  more  useless 


Act  II  In  the  Beginning  35 

than  either  of  you:  they  are  weaklings  and  cowards: 
they  are  vain ;  yet  they  are  dirty  and  will  not  take  the 
trouble  to  cut  their  hair.  They  borrow  and  never  pay ; 
but  one  gives  them  what  they  want,  because  they  tell 
beautiful  lies  in  beautiful  words.  They  can  remember 
their  dreams.  They  can  dream  without  sleeping.  They 
have  not  will  enough  to  create  instead  of  dreaming ;  but 
the  serpent  said  that  every  dream  could  be  willed  into 
creation  by  those  strong  enough  to  believe  in  it.  There 
are  others  who  cut  reeds  of  different  lengths  and  blow 
through  them,  making  lovely  patterns  of  sound  in  the 
air;  and  some  of  them  can  weave  the  patterns  together, 
sounding  three  reeds  at  the  same  time,  and  raising  my 
soul  to  things  for  which  I  have  no  words.  And  others 
make  little  mammoths  out  of  clay,  or  make  faces  appear 
on  flat  stones,  and  ask  me  to  create  women  for  them  with 
such  faces.  I  hav^  watched  those  faces  and  willed ;  and 
then  I  have  made  a  woman-child  that  has  grown  up  quite 
like  them.  And  others  think  of  numbers  without  having 
to  count  on  their  fingers,  and  watch  the  sky  at  night,  and 
give  names  to  the  stars,  and  can  foretell  when  the  sun 
will  be  covered  with  a  black  saucepan  lid.  And  there  is 
Tubal,  who  made  his  wheel  for  me  which  has  saved  me  so 
much  labor.  And  there  is  Enoch,  w'ho  walks  on  the  hills, 
and  hears  the  Voice  continually,  and  has  given  up  his 
will  to  do  the  will  of  the  Voice,  and  has  some  of  the 
Voice's  greatness.  When  they  come,  there  is  always 
some  new  wonder,  or  some  new  hope :  something  to  live 
for.  They  never  want  to  die,  because  they  are  always 
learning  and  always  creating  either  things  or  wisdom, 
or  at  least  dreaming  of  them.  And  then  you,  Cain, 
come  to  me  with  your  stupid  fighting  and  destroying, 
and  your  foolish  boasting:  and  you  want  me  to  tell  you 
that  it  is  all  splendid,  and  that  you  are  heroic,  and  that 
nothing  but  death  or  the  dread  of  death  makes  life  worth 


k 


36  In  the  Beginning  Parti 

living.  Away  with  you,  naughty  child;  and  do  you, 
Adam,  go  on  with  your  work  and  not  waste  your  time 
listening  to  him. 

CAIN.    I  am  not,  perhaps,  very  clever ;  but — 

EVE  [interrwptmg  hiTn]  Perhaps  not ;  but  do  not  begin 
to  boast  of  that.    It  is  no  credit  to  you. 

CAIN.  For  all  that,  mother,  I  have  an  instinct  which 
tells  me  that  death  plays  its  part  in  life.  Tell  me  this : 
who  invented  death.'' 

Adam  springs  to  his  feet.  Eve  drops  her  distaff.  Both 
shew  the  greatest  consternation. 

CAIN.    What  is  the  matter  with  you  both.? 

ADAM.    Boy :  you  have  asked  us  a  terrible  question. 

EVE.  You  invented  murder.  Let  that  be  enough  for 
you. 

CAIN.  Murder  is  not  death.  You  know  what  I  mean. 
Those  whom  I  slay  would  die  if  I  spared  them.  If  I  am 
not  slain,  yet  I  shall  die.  Who  put  this  upon  me.''  I 
say,  who  invented  death.? 

ADAM.  Be  reasonable,  boy.  Could  you  bear  to  live 
for  ever.?  You  think  you  could,  because  you  know  that 
you  will  never  have  to  make  your  thought  good.  But  I 
have  known  what  it  is  to  sit  and  brood  under  the  terror 
of  eternity,  of  immortality.  Think  of  it,  man !  to  have 
no  escape!  to  be  Adam,  Adam,  Adam  through  more 
days  than  there  are  grains  of  sand  by  the  two  rivers, 
and  then  be  as  far  from  the  end  as  ever!  I,  who  have 
so  much  in  me  that  I  hate  and  long  to  cast  off!  Be 
thankful  to  your  parents,  who  enabled  you  to  hand  on 
your  burden  to  new  and  better  men,  and  won  for  you 
an  eternal  rest ;  for  it  was  we  who  invented  death. 

CAIN  [rising']  You  did  well :  I,  too,  do  not  want  to  live 
for  ever.  But  if  you  invented  death,  why  do  you  blame 
me,  who  am  a  minister  of  death? 


Act  II  In  the  Beginning  37 

ADAM.  I  do  not  blame  you.  Go  in  peace.  Leave  me 
to  my  digging,  and  your  mother  to  her  spinning. 

CAIN.  Well,  I  will  leave  you  to  it,  though  I  have 
shewn  you  a  better  way,  [He  picks  up  his  shield  and 
spear} .  -I  will  go  back  to  my  brave  warrior  friends  and 
their  splendid  women.  [He  strides  to  the  thorn  brake}. 
When  Adam  delved  and  Eve  span,  where  was  then  the 
gentleman?  \^He  goes  away  roaring  with  laughter, 
which  ceases  as  he  cries  from  the  distance].  Good-bye, 
mother. 

ADAM  [grumbling']  He  might  have  put  the  hurdle 
back,  lazy  hound!  [He  replaces  the  hurdle  across  the 
passage] , 

EVE.  Through  him  and  his  like,  death  is  gaining  on 
life.  Already  most  of  our  grandchildren  die  before  they 
have  sense  enough  to  know  how  to  live. 

ADAM.  No  matter.  [He  spits  on  his  hands,  and  takes 
up  the  spade  again].  Life  is  still  long  enough  to  learn 
to  dig,  short  as  they  are  making  it. 

EVE  [musing]  Yes,  to  dig.  And  to  fight.  But  is  it 
long  enough  for  the  other  things,  the  great  things? 
Will  they  live  long  enough  to  eat  manna  ? 

ADAM.    What  is  manna? 

EVE.  Food  drawn  down  from  heaven,  made  out  of  the 
air,  not  dug  dirtily  from  the  earth.  Will  they  learn  all 
the  ways  of  all  the  stars  in  their  little  time?  It  took 
Enoch  two  hundred  years  to  learn  to  intercept  the  will 
of  the  Voice.  When  he  was  a  mere  child  of  eighty,  liis 
babyish  attempts  to  understand  the  Voice  were  more 
dangerous  than  the  wrath  of  Cain.  If  they  shorten 
their  lives,  they  will  dig  and  fight  and  kill  and  die ;  and 
their  baby  Enochs  will  tell  them  that  it  is  the  will  of  the 
Voice  that  they  should  dig  and  fight  and  kill  and  die 
for  ever. 

ADAM.    If  they  are  lazy  and  have  a  will  towards  death 


38  In  the  Beginning  Parti 

I  cannot  help  it.    I  will  live  my  thousand  years :  if  they 
will  not,  let  them  die  and  be  damned. 

EVE.    Damned?    What  is  that? 

ADAM.  The  state  of  them  that  love  death  more  than 
life.  Go  on  with  your  spinning;  and  do  not  sit  there 
idle  while  I  am  straining  my  muscles  for  you. 

EVE  [slowly  taking  up  her  distaff]  If  you  were  not  a 
fool  you  would  find  something  better  for  both  of  us  to 
live  by  than  this  spinning  and  digging. 

ADAM.  Go  on  with  your  work,  I  tell  you ;  or  you  shall 
go  without  bread. 

EVE.  Man  need  not  always  live  by  bread  alone. 
There  is  something  else.  We  do  not  yet  know  what  it 
is ;  but  some  day  we  shall  find  out ;  and  then  we  will  live 
on  that  alone;  and  there  shall  be  no  more  digging  noi 
spinning,  nor  fighting  nor  killing. 
She  spins  resignedly:  he  digs  impatiently. 


PART  II 

THE  GOSPEL 
OF  THE  BROTHERS  BARNABAS 

XXXIII 


THE  GOSPEL 
OF  THE  BROTHERS  BARNABAS 

In  the  -first  years  after  the  war  an  impressive-looking 
gentleman  of  50  is  seated  writing  in  a  well-furnished 
spacious  study.  He  is  dressed  in  block.  His  coat  is  a 
frock-coat ;  his  tie  is  white;  and  his  waistcoat y  though  it 
is  not  quite  a  clergyman's  waistcoat,  and  his  collar, 
though  it  buttons  in  front  instead  of  behind,  combine 
with  the  prosperity  indicated  by  his  surroundings,  and 
his  air  of  personal  distinction,  to  suggest  the  clerical 
dignitary.  Still,  he  is  clearly  neither  dean  nor  bishop; 
he  is  rather  too  starkly  intellectual  for  a  popular  Free 
Church  enthusiast;  and  he  is  not  careworn  enough  to  be 
a  great  headmaster. 

The  study  windows,  which  have  broad  comfortable 
window  seats,  overlook  Hampstead  Heath  towards  Lon- 
don, Consequently,  it  being  a  fine  afternoon  in  spring, 
the  room  is  sunny.  As  you  face  these  windows,  you  have 
on  your  right  the  fireplace,  with  a  few  logs  smouldering 
in  it,  and  a  couple  of  comfortable  library  chairs  on  the 
hearth-rug;  beyond  it  and  beside  it  the  door;  before  you 
the  writing-table,  at  which  the  clerical  gentleman  sits  a 
little  to  your  left  facing  the  door  with  his  right  profile 
presented  to  you;  on  your  left  a  settee;  and  on  your 
right  a  couple  of  Chippendale  chairs.  There  is  also  an 
upholstered  square  stool  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
against  the  writing-table.  The  walls  are  covered  with 
bookshelves  above  and  lockers  beneath, 

41 


42  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

The  door  opens;  and  another  gentleman^  shorter  than 
the  clerical  one,  within  a  year  or  two  of  the  same  age, 
dressed  m  a  welt-worn  tweed  lounge  suit,  with  a  short 
heard  and  much  less  style  m  his  bearing  and  carriage, 
looks  in. 

THE  CLERICAL  GENTLEMAN  [familiar  and  by  no  means 
cordial}  Hallo !  I  didnt  expect  you  until  the  five  o'clock 
train. 

THE  T WEEDED  GENTLEMAN  [coming  in  Very  slowly'] 
I  have  something  on  my  mind.  I  thought  I'd  come 
early. 

THE  CLERICAL  GENTLEMAN  [throxoing  down  his  pen] 
What  is  on  your  mind? 

THE  TWEEDED  GENTLEMAN  [sitting  down  on  the  stool, 
heavily  preoccupied  with  his  thought]  1  have  made  up 
my  mind  at  last  about  the  time.  I  make  it  three  hun- 
dred years. 

THE  CLERICAL  GENTLEMAN  [sitting  up  energetic  ally] 
Now  that  is  extraordinary.  Most  extraordinary.  The 
very  last  words  I  wrote  when  you  interrupted  me  were 
"at  least  three  centuries."  [He  snatches  up  his  manu- 
script and  points  to  it].  Here  it  is:  [reading]  "the 
term  of  human  life  must  be  extended  to  at  least  three 
centuries." 

THE  TWEEDED  GENTLEMAN.  How  did  you  arrive  at  it  ? 

A  parlor  maid  opens  the  door,  ushering  in  a  young 
clergyman. 

THE  PARLOR  MAID.     Mr  Haslam.      [She  withdraws]. 

The  visitor  is  so  very  unwelcome  that  his  host  forgets 
to  rise;  and  the  two  brothers  stare  at  the  intruder,  quite 
unable  to  conceal  their  dismay.  Haslam,  who  has  noth- 
ing clerical  about  him  except  his  collar,  and  wears  a 
snuff-colored  suit,  smiles  with  a  frank  schoolboyishness 
that  makes  it  impossible  to  he  unkind  to  him,  and  ex- 
plodes into  obviously  wnpremeditated  speech. 


Part  II    Gk)spel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  43 

HASLAM.  I'm  afraid  I'm  an  awful  nuisance.  I'm 
the  rector ;  and  I  suppose  one  ought  to  call  on  people. 

THE  TWEEDED  GENTI.EMAN  [in  ghostly  t07ies\  We're 
not  Church  people,  you  know. 

HASLAM.  Oh,  I  dont  mind  that,  if  you  dont.  The 
Church  people  here  are  mostly  as  dull  as  ditch-water.  I 
have  heard  such  a  lot  about  you;  and  there  are  so  jolly 
few  people  to  talk  to.  I  thought  you  perhaps  wouldnt 
mind.  Do  you  mind.?  for  of  course  I'll  go  like  a  shot  if 
I'm  in  the  way. 

THE  CLEEICAL.  GENTLEMAN  [rising,  disarmed]  Sit 
down  Mr — er? 

HASLAM.     Haslam. 

THE  CLERICAL  GENTLEMAN.      Mr  Haslam. 

THE  TWEEDED  GENTLEMAN  [rising  and  Offering  him 
the  stool]  Sit  down.  [He  retreats  towards  the  Chippen- 
dale chairs], 

HASLAM  [sitting  down  on  the  stool]  Thanks  awfully, 

THE  CLERICAL  GENTLEMAN  [resuming  Ms  Seat]  This 
is  my  brother  Conrad,  Professor  of  Biology  at  Jarrow- 
fields  University:  Dr  Conrad  Barnabas.  My  name  is 
Franklyn:  Franklyn  Barnabas.  I  was  in  the  Church 
myself  for  some  years. 

HASLAM  [sympathizing]  Yes:  one  cant  help  it.  If 
theres  a  living  in  the  family,  or  one's  Governor  knows 
a  patron,  one  gets  shoved  into  the  Church  by  one's 
parents. 

CONRAD  [sitting  down  on  the  furthest  Chippendale 
with  a  snort  of  amusement]  Mp ! 

FRANKLYN.  One  gets  shoved  out  of  it,  sometimes,  by 
one's  conscience. 

HASLAM.  Oh  yes ;  but  where  is  a  chap  like  me  to  go  ? 
I'm  afraid  I'm  not  intellectual  enough  to  split  straws 
when  theres  a  job  in  front  of  me,  and  nothing  better  for 
me  to  do.    I  daresay  the  Church  was  a  bit  thick  for  you ; 


44  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

but  it's  good  enough  for  me.  It  will  last  my  time,  any- 
how.     \_He  laughs  good-humoredly^ . 

FEANKLYN  [with  renewed  energy^  There  again !  You 
see,  Con.  It  will  last  his  time.  Life  is  too  short  for  men 
to  take  it  seriously. 

HASLAM.     Thats  a  way  of  looking  at  it,  certainly. 

FRANKLYN.  I  was  uot  shoved  into  the  Church,  Mr 
Haslam:  I  felt  it  to  be  my  vocation  to  walk  with  God, 
like  Enoch.  After  twenty  years  of  it  I  realized  that  I 
was  walking  with  my  own  ignorance  and  self-conceit, 
and  that  I  was  not  within  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  of 
the  experience  and  wisdom  I  was  pretending  to. 

HASLAM.  Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  old  Methuselah 
must  have  had  to  think  twice  before  he  took  on  anything 
for  life.  If  I  thought  I  was  going  to  live  nine  hundred 
and  sixty  years,  I  dont  think  I  should  stay  in  the 
Church. 

FRANKLYN.  If  men  lived  even  a  third  of  that  time, 
the  Church  would  be  very  different  to  the  thing  it  is. 

CONRAD.  If  I  could  count  on  nine  hundred  and  sixty 
years  I  could  make  myself  a  real  biologist,  instead  of 
what  I  am  now:  a  child  trying  to  walk.  Are  you  sure 
you  might  not  become  a  good  clergyman  if  you  had  a 
few  centuries  to  do  it  in? 

HASLAM.  Oh,  theres  nothing  much  the  matter  with 
me:  it's  quite  easy  to  be  a  decent  parson.  It's  the 
Church  that  chokes  me  off.  I  couldnt  stick  it  for  nine 
hundred  years.  I  should  chuck  it.  You  know,  some- 
times, when  the  bishop,  who  is  the  most  priceless  of 
fossils,  lets  off  something  more  than  usually  out-of-date, 
the  bird  starts  in  my  garden. 

FRANKLYN.    The  bird? 

HASLAM.  Oh  yes.  Theres  a  bird  there  that  keeps  on 
singing  "Stick  it  or  chuck  it:  stick  it  or  chuck  it" — just 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  45 

like  that — for  an  hour  on  end  in  the  spring.  I  wish  my 
father  had  found  some  other  shop  for  me. 

The  parlor  maid  comes  hack, 

THE  PARLOE  MAID.    Any  letters  for  the  post,  sir  ? 

FRANKLYN.  These.  \_He  proffers  a  basket  of  letters. 
She  comes  to  the  table  and  takes  them^. 

HASLAM  [to  the  maid]  Have  you  told  Mr  Barnabas 

yet? 

THE  PARLOR  MAID  [flinching  a  little]  No,  sir. 

FRANKLYN.    Told  me  what? 

HASLAM.    She  is  going  to  leave  you  ? 

FRANKLYN.  Indeed?  I'm  sorry.  Is  it  our  fault,  Mr 
Haslam  ? 

HASLAM.    Not  a  bit.    She  is  jolly  well  off  here. 

THE  PARLOR  MAID  Ireddening]  I  have  never  denied  it, 
sir:  I  couldnt  ask  for  a  better  place.  But  I  have  only 
one  life  to  live;  and  I  maynt  get  a  second  chance.  Ex- 
cuse me,  sir;  but  the  letters  must  go  to  catch  the  post. 
\_She  goes  out  with  the  letters]. 

The  two  brothers  look  enquiringly  at  Haslam. 

HASLAM.  Silly  girl !  Going  to  marry  a  village  wood- 
man and  live  in  a  hovel  with  him  and  a  lot  of  kids 
tumbling  over  one  another,  just  because  the  fellow  has 
poetic-looking  eyes  and  a  moustache. 

CONRAD  Idemurring]  She  said  it  was  because  she  had 
only  one  life. 

HASLAM.  Same  thing,  poor  girl!  The  fellow  per- 
suaded her  to  chuck  it ;  and  when  she  marries  him  she'll 
have  to  stick  it.    Rotten  state  of  things,  I  call  it. 

CONRAD.  You  see,  she  hasnt  time  to  find  out  what  life 
really  means.    She  has  to  die  before  she  knows. 

HASLAM  {^agreeably']  Thats  it. 

FRANKLYN.  She  hasut  time  to  form  a  well-instructed 
conscience. 

HASLAM  IstUl  more  cheerfully]  Quite. 


46  Giospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

FRANKLYN.  It  gocs  deeper.  She  hasnt  time  to  form 
a  genuine  conscience  at  all.  Some  romantic  points  of 
honor  and  a  few  conventions.  A  world  without  con- 
science :  that  is  the  horror  of  our  condition. 

HASiiAM  [^beaming]  Simply  fatuous.  \_Rising'], 
Well,  I  suppose  I'd  better  be  going.  It's  most  awfully 
good  of  you  to  put  up  with  my  calling. 

CONEAD  [in  his  former  low  ghostly  tone]  You  neednt 
go,  you  know,  if  you  are  really  interested. 

HASLAM  \_fed  u'p^^  Well,  I'm  afraid  I  ought  to — I 
reaUy  must  get  back — I  have  something  to  do  in  the — 

FRANKLYN  [smiUng  benignly  and  rising  to  proffer  his 
hand~\  Good-bye. 

CONEAD  \_grufflyy  giving  him  up  as  a  bad  job]  Good- 
bye. 

HASLAM.     Good-bye.     Sorry — er — 

As  the  rector  moves  to  shake  hands  with  Franklyn, 
feeling  that  he  is  makmg  a  frightful  mess  of  his  depart- 
ure, a  vigorous  sunburnt  young  lady  with  hazel  hair  cut 
to  the  level  of  her  neck,  like  an  Italian  youth  in  a  Goz- 
zoli  picture,  comes  in  impetuxnisly .  She  seems  to  have 
nothing  on  but  her  short  skirt,  her  blouse,  her  stock- 
ings, and  a  pair  of  Norwegian  shoes:  in  short,  she  is  a 
Simple-Lifer, 

THE  siMPLE-LiFEE  [swooping  ou  Conrdd  and  kissing 
him~\  Hallo,  Nunk.     Youre  before  your  time. 

CONEAD.    Behave  yourself.     Theres  a  visitor. 

She  turns  quickly  and  sees  the  rector.  She  instinc- 
tively switches  at  her  Gozzoli  fringe  with  her  fingers,  but 
gives  it  up  as  hopeless, 

FEANKLYN.  Mr  Haslam,  our  new  rector.  [To  Has- 
lam^.     My  daughter  Cynthia. 

CONEAD.    Usually  called  Savvy,  short  for  Savage. 

SAVVY.     I  usually  call  Mr  Haslam  Bill,  short  for 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  47 

William.  \_She  strolls  to  the  hearth-rug,  and  surveys 
them  calmly  from  that  commanding  position^, 

FRANKLYN.    You  know  him? 

SAVVY.    Rather.    Sit  down,  Bill. 

FEANKLYN.  Mr  Haslam  is  going,  Savvy.  He  has  an 
engagement. 

SAVVY.    I  know.    I'm  the  engagement. 

CONRAD.  In  that  case,  would  you  mind  taking  Kim 
into  the  garden  w'hile  I  talk  to  your  father.? 

SAVVY-  [to  Haslam^  Tennis.? 

HASLAM.     Rather ! 

SAVVY.  Come  on.  [She  dances  out.  He  runs  ovt 
boyishly  after  her]. 

FRANKLYN  [leaving  his  table  and  beginning  to  walk 
up  and  down  the  room  discontentedly]  Savvy's  manners 
jar  on  me.    They  would  have  horrified  her  grandmother. 

CONRAD  [obstinately]  They  are  happier  manners  than 
Mother's  manners. 

FRANKLYN.  Yes :  they  are  franker,  wholesomer,  better 
in  a  hundred  ways.  And  yet  I  squirm  at  them.  I  can- 
not get  it  out  of  my  head  that  Mother  was  a  well-man- 
nered woman,  and  that  Savvy  has  no  manners  at  all. 

CONRAD.  There  wasnt  any  pleasure  in  Mother's  fine 
manners.     That  makes  a  biological  difference. 

FRANKLYN.  But  there  was  beauty  in  Mother's  man- 
ners, grace  in  them,  style  in  them :  above  all,  decision  in 
them.    Savvy  is  such  a  cub. 

CONRAD.    So  she  ought  to  be,  at  her  age. 

FRANKLYN.  There  it  comes  again!  Her  age!  her 
age! 

CONRAD.  You  want  her  to  be  fully  grown  at  eighteen. 
You  want  to  force  her  into  a  stuck-up,  artificial,  prema- 
ture self-possession  before  she  has  any  self  to  possess. 
You  just  let  her  alone :  she  is  right  enough  for  her  years. 

FRANKLYN.    I  have  let  her  alone ;  and  look  at  the  re- 


48  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

suit !  Like  all  the  other  young  people  who  have  been  let 
alone,  she  becomes  a  Socialist.  That  is,  she  becomes 
hopelessly  demoralized. 

CONRAD.    Well,  amt  you  a  Socialist.? 

FHANKLYN.  Yes ;  but  that  is  not  the  same  thing. 
You  and  I  were  brought  up  in  the  old  bourgeois  moral- 
ity. We  were  taught  bourgeois  manners  and  bourgeois 
points  of  honor.  Bourgeois  manners  may  be  snobbish 
manners :  there  may  be  no  pleasure  in  them,  as  you  say ; 
but  they  are  better  than  no  manners.  Many  bourgeois 
points  of  honor  may  be  false;  but  at  least  they  exist. 
The  women  know  what  to  expect  and  what  is  expected 
of  them.  Savvy  doesnt.  She  is  a  Bolshevist  and  nothing 
else.  She  has  to  improvize  her  manners  and  her  con- 
duct as  she  goes  along.  It's  often  charming,  no  doubt ; 
but  sometimes  she  puts  her  foot  in  it  frightfully;  and 
then  I  feel  that  she  is  blaming  me  for  not  teaching  her 
better. 

CONRAD.  Well,  you  have  something  better  to  teach 
her  now,  at  all  events. 

FRANKLYN.  Yes ;  but  it  is  too  late.  She  doesnt  trust 
me  now.  She  doesnt  talk  about  such  things  to  me.  She 
doesnt  read  anything  I  write.  She  never  comes  to  hear 
me  lecture.  I  am  out  of  it  as  far  as  Savvy  is  concerned. 
\^He  resumes  his  seat  at  the  writing-table^* 

CONRAD.    I  must  have  a  talk  to  her. 

FRANKLYN.  Perhaps  she  will  listen  to  you.  You  are 
not  her  father. 

CONRAD.  I  sent  her  my  last  book.  I  can  break  the 
ice  by  asking  her  what  she  made  of  it. 

FRANKLYN.  When  she  heard  you  were  coming,  she 
asked  me  whether  all  the  leaves  were  cut,  in  case  it  fell 
into  your  hands.     She  basnt  read  a  word  of  it. 

CONRAD  prising  indignantly'\  What! 

FRANKLYN  \inexorahly'\  Not  a  word  of  it. 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  49 

CONRAD  [beaten^  Well,  I  suppose  it's  only  natural. 
Biology  is  a  dry  subject  for  a  girl;  and  I  am  a  pretty 
dry  old  codger.      [He  sits  down  again  resignedly^, 

FRANKLYN.  Brother:  if  that  is  so;  if  biology  as  you 
have  worked  at  it,  and  religion  as  I  have  worked  at  it, 
are  dry  subjects  like  the  old  stuff  they  taught  under 
these  names,  and  we  two  are  dry  old  codgers,  like  the  old 
preachers  and  professors,  then  the  Gospel  of  the  Broth- 
ers Barnabas  is  a  delusion.  Unless  this  withered  thing 
religion,  and  this  dry  thing  science,  have  come  alive  in 
our  hands,  alive  and  intensely  interesting,  we  may  just 
as  well  go  out  and  dig  the  garden  until  it  is  time  to  dig 
our  graves.  [The  parlor  maid  returns,  Franklyn  is 
impatient  at  the  interruption^.     Well?  what  is  it  now? 

THE  PARLOR  MAID.  Mr  Joyce  Burge  on  the  telephone, 
sir.    He  wants  to  speak  to  you. 

FRANKLYN  \_astonished^  Mr  Joyce  Burge ! 

THE  PARLOR  MAID.      YeS,  sir. 

FRANKLYN  ^to  Conrad~\  What  on  earth  does  this 
mean?  I  havnt  heard  from  him  nor  exchanged  a  word 
with  him  for  years.  I  resigned  the  chairmanship  of  the 
Liberal  Association  and  shook  the  dust  of  pai-ty  politics 
from  my  feet  before  he  was  Prime  Minister  in  the  Coali- 
tion.   Of  course,  he  dropped  me  like  a  hot  potato. 

CONRAD.  Well,  now  that  the  Coalition  has  chucked 
him  out,  and  he  is  only  one  of  the  half-dozen  leaders  of 
the  Opposition,  perhaps  he  wants  to  pick  you  up  again. 

THE  PARLOR  MAID  \warningly'\  He  is  holding  the  line, 
sir. 

FRANKLYN.     Ycs :  all  right.      \^He  hurries  oufl. 

The  parlor  maid  goes  to  the  hearthrug  to  make  up  the 
fire,  Conrad  rises  and  strolls  to  the  middle  of  the  room, 
where  he  stops  and  looks  quizzically  down  at  her, 

CONRAD.    So  you  have  only  one  life  to  live,  eh? 


50  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

THE  PARLOR  MAID  [dropping  On  her  knees  in  conster- 
nation] I  meant  no  offence,  sir. 

CONRAD.  You  didnt  give  any.  But  you  know  you 
could  live  a  devil  of  a  long  life  if  you  really  wanted  to. 

THE  PARLOR  MAID  \_sitting  down  on  her  heels]  Oh  dont 
say  that,  sir.    It's  so  unsettling. 

CONRAD.     Why?     Have  you  been  thinking  about  it? 

THE  PARLOR  MAID.  It  would  never  have  come  into 
my  head  if  you  hadnt  put  it  there,  sir.  Me  and  cook 
had  a  look  at  your  book. 

CONRAD.     What ! 

You  and  cook 
Had  a  look 
At  my  book ! 
And  my  niece  wouldnt  open  it !    The  prophet  is  without 
honor  in  his  own  family.     Well,  what  do  you  think  of 
living  for  several  hundred  years?     Are  you  going  to 
have  a  try  for  it  ? 

THE  PARLOR  MAID.  Well,  of  course  youre  not  in 
earnest,  sir.  But  it  does  set  one  thinking,  especially 
when  one  is  going  to  be  married. 

CONRAD.  What  has  that  to  do  with  it?  He  may  live 
as  long  as  you,  you  know. 

THE  PARLOR  MAID.  That's  just  it,  sir.  You  see,  he 
must  take  me  for  better  for  worse,  til  death  do  us  part. 
Do  you  think  he  would  be  so  ready  to  do  that,  sir,  if  he 
thought  it  might  be  for  several  hundred  years  ? 

CONRAD.     That's  true.    And  what  about  yourself? 

THE  PARLOR  MAID.  Oh,  I  tell  you  Straight  out,  sir, 
I'd  never  promise  to  live  with  the  same  man  as  long  as 
that.  I  wouldnt  put  up  with  my  own  children  as  long 
as  that.  Why,  cook  figured  it  out,  sir,  that  when  you 
were  only  200,  you  might  marry  your  own  great-great- 
great-great-great-great-grandson  and  not  even  know 
who  he  was. 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  51 

CONRAD.  Well,  why  not?  For  all  you  know,  the 
man  you  are  going  to  marry  may  be  your  great-great- 
great  -  great  -  great  -  great  -  grandmother's  great  -  great  - 
great-great-great-great-grandson. 

THE  PARLOE  MAID.  But  do  you  think  it  would  ever 
be  thought  respectable,  sir? 

CONRAD.  My  good  girl,  all  biological  necessities 
have  to  be  made  respectable  whether  we  like  it  or  not ;  so 
you  neednt  worry  yourself  about  that. 

Franhlyn  returns  and  crosses  the  room  to  his  chair, 
but  does  not  sit  down.     The  parlor  maid  goes  out. 

CONRAD.     Well,  what  does  Joyce  Surge  want? 

FRANKLYN.  Oh,  a  silly  misunderstanding.  I  have 
promised  to  address  a  meeting  in  Middlesborough ;  and 
some  fool  has  put  it  into  the  papers  that  I  am  "coming 
to  Middlesiborough,"  without  any  explanation.  Of 
course,  now  that  we  are  on  the  eve  of  a  general  election, 
political  people  think  I  am  coming  there  to  contest  the 
parliamentary  seat.  Burge  knows  that  I  have  a  fol- 
lowing, and  thinks  I  could  get  into  the  House  of  Com- 
mons and  head  a  group  there.  So  he  insists  on  coming 
to  see  me.  He  is  staying  with  some  people  at  Dollis 
Hill,  and  can  be  here  in  five  or  ten  minutes,  he  says. 

CONRAD.  But  didn't  you  tell  him  that  it's  a  false 
alarm  ? 

FRANKLYN.     Of  coursc  I  did ;  but  he  wont  believe  me. 

CONRAD.     Called  you  a  liar,  in  fact? 

FRANKLYN.  No:  I  wish  he  had:  any  sort  of  plain 
speaking  is  better  than  the  nauseous  sham  goodfel- 
lowshlp  our  democratic  public  men  get  up  for  shop  use. 
He  pretends  to  believe  me,  and  assures  me  his  visit  is 
quite  disinterested ;  but  why  should  he  come  if  he  has  no 
axe  to  grind?  These  chaps  never  believe  anything  they 
say  themselves ;  and  naturally  they  cannot  believe  any- 
thing anyone  else  says. 


52  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

CONRAD  [^risi/ng]  Well,  I  shall  clear  out.  It  was  hard 
enough  to  stand  the  party  politicians  before  the  war; 
but  now  that  they  have  managed  to  half  kill  Europe 
between  them,  I  cant  be  civil  to  them,  and  I  dont  see  why 
I  should  be. 

FKANKLYN.  Wait  a  bit.  We  have  to  find  out  how 
the  world  will  take  our  new  gospel.  [Conrad  sits  down 
again].  Party  politicians  are  still  unfortunately  an 
important  part  of  the  world.  Suppose  we  try  it  on 
Joyce  Burge. 

CONRAD.  How  can  you?  You  can  tell  things  only 
to  people  who  can  listen.  Joyce  Burge  has  talked  so 
much  that  he  has  lost  the  power  of  listening.  He 
doesnt  listen  even  In  the  House  of  Commons. 

Savvy  rushes  in  breathless,  followed  hy  Haslam,^who 
remains  timidly  just  inside  the  door, 

SAVVY  [running  to  Franklyn^  I  say!  Who  do  you 
think  has  just  driven  up  in  a  big  car? 

FRANKLYN.     Mr  Joyce  Burge,  perhaps. 

SAVVY  [disappointed]  Oh,  they  know.  Bill.  Why 
didnt  you  tell  us  he  was  coming?     I  have  nothing  on. 

HASLAM.     I'd  better  go,  hadnt  I? 

CONRAD.  You  just  Wait  here,  both  of  you.  When 
you  start  yawning,  Joyce  Burge  will  take  the  hint, 
perhaps. 

SAVVY  [to  Franklyn]  May  we? 

FRANKLYN.     Ycs,  if  you  promise  to  behave  yourself. 

SAVVY  [making  a  wry  face]  That  will  be  a  treat, 
wont  it? 

THE  PARLOR  MAID  [entering  and  announcing]  Mr 
Joyce  Burge.  [Haslam  hastily  moves  to  the  fireplace; 
and  the  parlor  maid  goes  out  and  shuts  the  door  when 
the  visitor  has  passed  in] . 

FRANKLYN  [hurrying  past  Savvy  to  his  gu€st  with 
the  false  cordiality  he  has  just  been  denouncing]  Oh! 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  53 

Here  you  are.  Delighted  to  see  you.  [He  shakes 
Burge's  hand,  and  introdiices  Savvy^  My  daughter. 

SAVVY  [not  daring  to  approach]  Very  kind  of  you  to 
come. 

Joyce  Burge  stands  fast  and  says  nothing;  but  he 
screws  up  his  cheeks  into  a  smile  at  each  introduction, 
and  makes  his  eyes  shine  in  a  very  winning  manner.  He 
is  a  well-fed  man  turned  fifty,  with  broad  forehead,  and 
grey  hair  which,  his  neck  being  short,  falls  almost  to  his 
collar, 

FEANKLYN.     Mr  Haslam,  our  rector. 

Burge  conveys  an  impression  of  shining  like  a  church 
window;  and  Haslam  seizes  the  nearest  library  chair  on 
the  hearth,  and  swings  it  round  for  Burge  between  the 
stool  and  Conrad.  He  then  retires  to  the  window  seat  at 
the  other  side  of  the  room,  and  is  joined  by  Savvy,  They 
sit  there,  side  by  side,  hunched  up  with  their  elbows  on 
their  knees  and  their  chins  on  their  hands,  providing 
Burge  with  a  sort  of  Strangers'  Gallery  during  the 
ensuing  sitting, 

FRANKLYN.  I  forget  whether  you  know  my  brother 
Conrad.    He  is  a  biologist. 

BURGE  [suddenly  bursting  into  energetic  action  and 
shaking  hands  heartily  with  Conrad]  By  reputation 
only,  but  very  well,  of  course.  How  I  wish  I  could  have 
devoted  myself  to  biology!  I  have  always  been  inter- 
ested in  rocks  and  strata  and  volcanoes  and  so  forth: 
they  throw  such  a  light  on  the  age  of  the  earth.  [  With 
conviction]  There  is  nothing  like  biology.  "The  cloud- 
capped  towers,  the  solemn  pinnacles,  the  gorgeous 
temples,  the  great  globe  itself:  yea,  all  that  it  inherit 
shall  dissolve,  and,  like  this  influential  pageant  faded, 
leave  not  a  rack  behind."  That's  biology,  you  know: 
good  sound  biology.  [He  sits  down.  So  do  the  others, 
Franklyn  on  the  stool,  and  Conrad  on  his  Chippendale] , 


54  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

Well,  my  dear  Barnabas,  what  do  you  think  of  the  situ- 
ation? Dont  you  think  the  time  has  come  for  us  to 
make  a  move? 

FRANKLYN.  The  time  has  always  come  to  make  a 
move. 

BURGE.  How  true!  But  what  is  the  move  to  be? 
You  are  a  man  of  enormous  influence.  We  know  that. 
Weve  always  known  it.  We  have  to  consult  you  whether 
we  like  it  or  not.    We — 

FRANKLYN  [^interrupting  firmly^  I  never  meddle  in 
party  politics  now. 

SAVVY.  It's  no  use  saying  you  have  no  influence, 
daddy.    Heaps  of  people  swear  by  you. 

BURGE  [shining  at  her]  Of  course  they  do.  Come! 
let  me  prove  to  you  what  we  think  of  you.  Shall  we  find 
you  a  first-rate  constituency  to  contest  at  the  next  elec- 
tion ?  One  that  wont  cost  you  a  penny.  A  metropolitan 
seat.    What  do  you  say  to  the  Strand? 

FRANKLYN.  My  dear  Burge,  I  am  not  a  child.  Why 
do  you  go  on  wasting  your  party  funds  on  the  Strand  ? 
You  know  you  cannot  win  it. 

BURGE.     We  cannot  win  it ;  but  you — 

FRANKLYN.     Oh,  plcasc ! 

SAVVY.  The  Strand's  no  use,  Mr.  Burge.  I  once 
canvassed  for  a  Socialist  there.     Cheese  it. 

BURGE.     Cheese  it! 

HASLAM  [splwttering  with  suppressed  taught  er~\ 
Priceless ! 

SAVVY.  Well,  I  suppose  I  shouldnt  say  cheese  it  to  a 
Right  Honorable.  But  the  Strand,  you  know !  Do  come 
off  it. 

FRANKLYN.  You  must  cxcusc  my  daug'hter's  shock- 
ing manners,  Burge ;  but  I  agree  with  her  that  popular 
democratic  statesmen  soon  come  to  believe  that  everyone 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  55 

they  speak  to  is  an  ignorant  dupe  and  a  born  fool  into 
the  bargain. 

BuiiGE  [laughing  genially]  You  old  aristocrat,  you! 
But  beheve  me,  the  instinct  of  the  people  is  sound — 

CONRAD  {curtting  in  sharply]  Then  why  are  you  in 
the  Opposition  instead  of  in  the  Government? 

BURGE  [showing  signs  of  temper  under  this  heckling] 
I  deny  that  I  am  in  the  Opposition  morally.  The 
Government  does  not  represent  the  country.  I  was 
chucked  out  of  the  Coalition  by  a  Tory  conspiracy. 
The  people  want  me  back.    I  dont  want  to  go  back. 

FEANKLYN  [gently  remonstrant]  My  dear  Burge:  of 
course  you  do. 

BURGE  [turning  on  him]  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  want  to 
cultivate  my  garden.  I  am  not  interested  in  politics :  I 
am  interested  in  roses.  I  havent  a  scrap  of  ambition. 
I  went  into  politics  because  my  wife  shoved  me  into 
them,  bless  her !  But  I  want  to  serve  my  country.  What 
else  am  I  for?  I  want  to  save  my  country  from  the 
Tories.  They  dont  represent  the  people.  The  man 
they  have  made  Prime  Minister  has  never  represented 
the  people;  and  you  know  it.  Lord  Dunreen  is  the  bit- 
terest old  Tory  left  alive.  What  has  he  to  offer  to  the 
people  ? 

FRANKLYN  [cutting  lu  before  Burge  can  proceed — as 
he  evidently  intends — to  answer  his  own  question]  I  will 
tell  you.  He  has  ascertainable  beliefs  and  principles  to 
offer.  The  people  know  where  they  are  with  Lord  Dun- 
reen. They  know  what  he  thinks  right  and  what  he 
thinks  wrong.  With  your  followers  they  never  know 
where  they  are.  With  you  they  never  know  where 
they  are. 

BURGE  [amazed]  With  me! 

FEANKLYN.     Well,  whcre  are  you?     What  are  you? 


56  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

BURGE,  Barnabas:  you  must  be  mad.  You  ask  me 
what  I  am? 

FRANKLYN.       I  do, 

BURGE.  I  am,  if  I  mistake  not,  Joyce  Burge,  pretty 
well  known  throughout  Europe,  and  indeed  throughout 
the  world,  as  the  man  who — unwortliily  perhaps,  but  not 
quite  unsuccessfully — ^held  the  helm  when  the  ship  of 
State  weathered  the  mightiest  hurricane  that  has  ever 
burst  with  earth-shaking  violence  on  the  land  of  our 
fathers. 

FRANKLYN.  I  kuow  that.  I  kuow  who  you  are. 
And  the  earth-shaking  part  of  it  to  me  is  that  though 
you  were  placed  in  that  enormously  responsible  position, 
neither  I  nor  anyone  else  knows  what  your  beliefs  are, 
or  even  whether  you  have  either  beliefs  or  principles. 
What  we  did  know  was  that  your  Government  was 
formed  largely  of  men  who  regarded  you  as  a  robber  of 
henroosts,  and  whom  you  regarded  as  enemies  of  the 
people. 

BURGE  [adroitly,  as  he  thinks^  I  agree  with  you.  I 
agree  with  you  absolutely.  I  dont  believe  in  coalition 
governments. 

FRANKLYN.     Precisely.     Yet  you  formed  two. 

BURGE.  Why?  Because  we  were  at  war.  That  is 
what  you  fellows  never  would  realize.  The  Hun  was  at 
the  gate.  Our  country,  our  lives,  the  honor  of  our 
wives  and  mothers  and  daughters,  the  tender  flesh  of  our 
innocent  babes,  were  at  stake.  Was  that  a  time  to  argue 
about  principles? 

FRANKLYN.  I  should  Say  it  was  the  time  of  all  others 
to  confirm  the  resolution  of  our  own  men  and  gain  the 
confidence  and  support  of  public  opinion  throughout  the 
world  by  a  declaration  of  principle.  Do  you  think  the 
Hun  would  ever  have  come  to  the  gate  if  he  had  known 
that  it  would  be  shut  in  his  face  on  principle?     Did  he 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  57 

not  hold  his  own  against  you  until  America  boldly 
affirmed  the  democratic  principle  and  came  to  our 
rescue?  Why  did  you  let  America  snatch  that  honor 
from  England? 

BURGE.  Barnabas:  America  was  carried  away  by 
w^ords,  and  had  to  eat  them  at  the  Peace  Conference. 
Boware  of  eloquence :  it  is  the  bane  of  popular  speakers 
like  you. 

-^'RANKLYN  { ^exclaiming]  Well!  ! 

SAVVY  ■{         all  [l  like  that ! 

H\SLAM       [  together']  J  Priceless! 

BL'RGE  \_continuing  remorselessly]  Come  down  to 
facts.  It  wasnt  principle  that  won  the  war:  it  was  the 
Britislv fleet  and  the  blockade.  America  found  the  talk: 
I  found  the  shells.  You  cannot  win  wars  by  principles ; 
but  you  can  win  elections  by  them.  There  I  am  with 
you.  YoM  want  the  next  election  to  be  foug'ht  on  prin- 
ciples: that  is  what  it  comes  to,  doesnt  it? 

FRANKLYN.  I  dont  waut  it  to  be  fought  at  all?  An 
election  is  a  moral  horror,  as  bad  as  a  battle  except  for 
the  blood:  a  mud  bath  for  every  soul  concerned  in  it. 
You  know  very  well  that  it  will  not  be  fought  on 
principle, 

BURGE.  On  the  contrary  it  will  be  fought  on  nothing 
else.  I  believe  a  program  is  a  mistake.  I  agree  with 
you  that  principle  is  what  we  want. 

FRANKLYN.     Principle  without  program,  eh? 

BURGE.     Exactly.    There  it  is  in  three  words. 

FRANKLYN.  Why  not  in  one  word?  Platitudes. 
That  is  what  principle  without  program  means. 

BURGE  [puzzled  hut  patient,  trying  to  get  at  Frank- 
lyn^s  drift  in  order  to  ascertain  his  price]  I  have  not 
made  myself  clear.  Listen.  I  am  agreeing  with  you. 
I  am  on  your  side.  I  am  accepting  your  proposal. 
There  isnt  going  to  be  any  more  coalition.     This  time 


58  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

there  wont  be  a  Tory  in  the  Cabinet.  Every  candidate 
will  have  to  pledge  himself  to  Free  Trade,  slightly 
modified  by  consideration  for  our  Overseas  Dominions  , 
to  Disestablishment ;  to  Reform  of  the  House  of  Lords  \ 
to  a  revised  scheme  of  Taxation  of  Land  Values ;  and  to 
doing  something  or  other  to  keep  the  Irish  quiet.  Does 
that  satisfy  you? 

FEANKLYN.  It  does  not  even  interest  me.  Suppose 
your  friends  do  commit  themselves  to  all  this!  Waat 
does  it  prove  about  them  except  that  they  are  hopelessly 
out  of  date  even  in  party  politics?  that  they  have  harnt 
nothing  and  forgotten  nothing  since  1885?  What  is  it 
to  me  that  they  hate  the  Church  and  hate  the  landed 
gentry;  that  they  are  jealous  of  the  nobility,  ani  have 
shipping  shares  instead  of  manufacturing  businesses  in 
the  Midlands?  I  can  find  you  hundreds  of  ^^he  most 
sordid  rascals,  or  the  most  densely  stupid  rea'^tionaries, 
with  all  these  qualifications. 

BIJRGE.  Personal  abuse  proves  nothing.  Do  you 
suppose  the  Tories  are  all  angels  because  they  are  all 
members  of  the  Church  of  England? 

FRANKLYN.  No ;  but  they  stand  together  as  members 
of  the  Church  of  England,  whereas  your  people,  in 
attacking  the  Church,  are  all  over  the  shop.  The  sup- 
porters of  the  Church  are  of  one  mind  about  religion: 
its  enemies  are  of  a  dozen  minds.  The  Churchmen  are 
a  phalanx :  your  people  are  a  mob  in  which  atheists  are 
jostled  by  Plymouth  Brethren,  and  Positivists  by  Pillars 
of  Fire.  You  have  with  you  all  the  crudest  unbelievers 
and  all  the  crudest  fanatics. 

BURGE.  We  stand,  as  Cromwell  did,  for  liberty  of 
conscience,  if  that  is  what  you  mean. 

FRANKLYN.  How  cau  you  talk  such  rubbish  over  the 
graves  of  your  conscientious  objectors?  All  law  limits 
liberty  of  conscience :  if  a  man's  conscience  allows  him  to 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  59 

steal  jour  watch  or  to  shirk  military  service,  how  much 
liberty  do  you  allow  it?  Liberty  of  conscience  is  not  my 
point. 

BURGE  [testilt^']  I  wish  you  would  come  to  your  point. 
Half  the  time  you  are  saying  that  you  must  have  prin- 
ciples; and  when  I  offer  you  principles  you  say  they 
wont  work. 

FRANKLYN.  You  have  not  offered  me  any  principles. 
Your  party  shibboleths  are  not  principles.  If  you  get 
into  power  again  you  will  find  yourself  at  the  head  of  a 
rabble  of  Socialists  and  anti-Socialists,  of  Jingo  Im- 
perialists and  Little  Englanders,  of  cast-iron  Material- 
ists and  ecstatic  Quakers,  of  Christian  Scientists  and 
Compulsory  Inoculationists,  of  Syndicalists  and  Bureau- 
crats :  in  short,  of  men  differing  fiercely  and  irreconcil- 
ably on  every  principle  that  goes  to  the  root  of  human 
society  and  destiny;  and  the  impossibility  of  keeping 
such  a  team  together  will  force  you  to  sell  the  pass  again 
to  the  solid  Conservative  Opposition. 

BURGE  \_rising  in  im'ath^  Sell  the  pass  again!  You 
accuse  me  of  having  sold  the  pass ! 

FRANKLYN.  When  the  terrible  impact  of  real  war- 
fare swept  your  parliamentary  sham  warfare  into  the 
dustbin,  you  had  to  go  behind  the  backs  of  your  fol- 
lowers and  make  a  secret  agreement  with  the  leaders  of 
the  Opposition  party  to  keep  you  in  power  on  condition 
that  you  dropped  all  legislation  of  which  they  did  not 
approve.  And  you  could  not  even  hold  them  to  their 
bargain;  for  they  presently  betrayed  the  secret  and 
forced  the  coalition  on  you. 

BURGE.  I  solemnly  declare  that  this  is  a  false  and 
monstrous  accusation. 

FRANKLYN.  Do  you  deny  that  the  thing  occurred? 
Were  the  uncontradicted  reports  false?  Were  the  pub- 
lished letters  forgeries? 


60  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

BURGE.  Certainly  not.  But  /did  not  do  it.  I  was 
not  Prime  Minister  then.  It  was  that  old  dotard,  that 
played-out  old  humbug  Lubin.  He  was  Prime  Minister 
then,  not  I. 

FRANKLYN.     Do  you  mean  to  say  you  did  not  know? 

BURGE  [sitting  down  again  with  a  shrug^  Oh,  I  had 
to  be  told.  But  what  could  I  do  ?  If  we  had  refused  we 
might  have  had  to  go  out  of  office. 

FRANKLYN.     Precisely. 

BURGE.  Well,  could  we  desert  the  country  at  such  a 
crisis?  The  Hun  was  at  the  gate.  Everyone  has  to 
make  a  sacrifice  for  the  sake  of  the  country  at  such 
moments.  We  had  to  rise  above  party ;  and  I  am  proud 
to  say  we  never  gave  party  a  second  thought.  We 
stuck  to — 

CONRAD.     Office? 

BURGE  [turning  on  him^  Yes,  sir,  to  office:  that  is,  to 
responsibility,  to  danger,  to  heart-sickening  toil,  to 
abuse  and  misunderstanding,  to  a  martyrdom  that  made 
us  envy  the  ver}^  soldiers  in  the  trenches.  If  you  had 
had  to  live  for  months  on  aspirin  and  bromide  of  potas- 
sium to  get  a  wink  of  sleep,  you  wouldnt  talk  about 
office  as  if  it  were  a  catch. 

FRANKLYN.  Still,  you  admit  that  under  our  parlia- 
mentary system  Lubin  could  not  have  helped  himself? 

BURGE.  On  that  subject  my  lips  are  closed.  Nothing 
will  induce  me  to  say  one  word  against  the  old  man.  I 
never  have ;  and  I  never  will.  Lubin  is  old :  he  has  never 
been  a  real  statesman :  he  is  as  lazy  as  a  cat  on  a  hearth- 
rug: you  cant  get  him  to  attend  to  anything;  he  is  good 
for  nothing  but  getting  up  and  making  speeches  with  a 
peroration  that  goes  down  with  the  back  benches.  But 
I  say  nothing  against  him.  I  gather  that  you  do  not 
think  much  of  me  as  a  statesman ;  but  at  all  events  I  can 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  61 

get  things  done.    I  can  hustle :  even  you  will  admit  that. 
But  Lubin !    Oh  my  stars,  Lubin !  !    If  you  only  knew — 
Tlie  parlor  rrmid  opens  the  door  and  announces   a 
visitor. 

THE  PARLOR  MAID.       Mr.  Lubiu. 

BURGE  [bounding  from  his  chair~\  Lubin!  Is  this  a 
conspiracy  ? 

They  all  rise  m  ammzement,  staring  at  the  doof,. 
Lubin  enters:  a  man  at  the  end  of  his  sixties,  a  York- 
shir  eman  with  the  last  traces  of  Scandinavian  flax  still 
in  his  white  hair,  undistinguished  in  stature,  unassum- 
ing in  his  manner,  and  taking  his  simple  dignity  for 
granted,  but  wonderfully  comfortable  and  quite  self- 
assured  in  contrast  to  the  intellectual  restlessness  of 
Franklyn  and  the  mesmeric  self-assertiveness  of  Burge, 
His  presence  suddenly  brings  out  the  fact  that  they  are 
unhappy  men,  ill  at  ease,  square  pegs  in  round  holes, 
whilst  he  flourishes  like  a  primrose. 

The  parlor  maid  withdraws. 

LUBIN  [coming  to  Franklyn]  How  do  you  do,  Mr 
Barnabas?  [He  speaks  very  comfortably  and  kindly, 
much  as  if  he  were  the  host,  and  Franklyn  an  embar- 
rassed but  welcome  guest] .  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meet- 
ing you  once  at  the  Mansion  House.  I  think  it  was  to 
celebrate  the  conclusion  of  the  hundred  years  peace  with 
America. 

FRANKLYN  [shaking  hands]  It  was  long  before  that : 
a  meeting  about  Venezuela,  when  we  were  on  the  point  of 
going  to  war  with  America. 

LUBIN  [not  at  all  put  out]  Yes:  you  are  quite  right. 
I  knew  it  was  something  about  America.  [He  pats 
Franklyn*s  hand].  And  how  have  you  been  all  this 
time?    Well,  eh? 

FRANKLYN  [smiUng  to  soften  the  sarcasm]  A  few 
visiccitudes  of  health  naturally  in  so  long  a  time. 


62  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

LUBiN.  Just  SO.  Just  SO.  ^Looking  round  at 
Sawy^  The  young  lady  is — ? 

FRANKLYN.     My  daughter,  Savvy. 

Savvy  comes  from  the  window  between  her  father  and 
Luhin, 

LUBIN  [^taking  her  hand  affectionately  in  both  his^ 
And  why  has  she  never  come  to  see  us  ? 

BUEGE.  I  dont  know  whether  you  have  noticed, 
Lubin,  that  I  am  present. 

Savvy  takes  advantage  of  this  diversion  to  slip  away 
to  the  settee y  where  she  is  stealthily  joined  by  Haslam, 
who  sits  down  on  her  left. 

LUBIN  [seating  himself  in  Burgees  chair  with  ineffable 
comfortableness}  My  dear  Burge:  if  you  imagine  that 
it  is  possible  to  be  within  ten  miles  of  your  energetic 
presence  without  being  acutely  aware  of  it,  you  do  your- 
self the  greatest  injustice.  How  are  you.?  And  how 
are  your  good  newspaper  friends.?  {^Burge  makes  an 
explosive  movement;  but  Lubin  goes  on  calmly  and 
sweetly"]  And  what  are  you  doing  here  with  my  old 
friend  Barnabas,  if  I  may  ask.? 

BURGE  [sitting  down  in  Conrad^s  chair,  leaving  him 
standing  uneasily  in  the  corner']  Well,  just  what  you 
are  doing,  if  you  want  to  know.  I  am  trying  to  enlist 
Mr  Barnabas's  valuable  support  for  my  party. 

LUBIN.     Your  party,  eh?     The  newspaper  party? 

BURGE.  The  Liberal  Party.  The  party  of  which  I 
have  the  honor  to  be  leader. 

LUBIN.  Have  you  now?  Thats  very  interesting;  for 
I  thought  /  was  the  leader  of  the  Liberal  Party.  How- 
ever, it  is  very  kind  of  you  to  take  it  off  my  hands,  if 
the  party  will  let  you. 

BURGE.  Do  you  suggest  that  I  have  not  the  support 
and  confidence  of  the  party? 

LUBIN.     I  dont  suggest  anything,  my  dear  Burge. 


Part  II    Gk)spel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  63 

Mr  Barnabas  will  tell  jou  that  we  all  think  very  highly 
of  you.  The  country  owes  you  a  great  deal.  During 
the  war,  you  did  very  creditably  over  the  munitions ;  and 
if  you  were  not  quite  so  successful  with  the  peace,  no- 
body  doubted  that  you  meant  well. 

BURGE.  Very  kind  of  you,  Lubin.  Let  me  remark 
that  you  cannot  lead  a  progressive  party  without  get- 
ting a  move  on. 

I.UBIN.  You  mean  you  cannot.  I  did  it  for  ten 
years  without  the  least  difficulty.  And  very  comfortable, 
prosperous,  pleasant  years  they  were. 

BURGE.     Yes ;  but  what  did  they  end  in  ? 

LUBIN.  In  you,  Burge.  You  dont  complain  of  that, 
do  you? 

BURGE  Iflercely]  In  plague,  pestilence,  and  famine; 
battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death. 

LUBIN  \_zen,th  an  appreciative  chuckle^  The  Noncon- 
formist can  quote  the  prayer-book  for  his  own  purposes, 
I  see.  How  you  enjoyed  yourself  over  that  business, 
Burge!     Do  you  remember  the  Knock-Out  Blow? 

BURGE.  It  came  off:  dont  forget  that.  Do  you  re- 
member fighting  to  the  last  drop  of  your  blood  ? 

LUBIN  [unruffled,  to  Franhlyn]  By  the  way,  I  remem- 
ber your  brother  Conrad — a  wonderful  brain  and  a  dear 
good  fellow — explaining  to  me  that  I  couldnt  fight  to  the 
last  drop  of  my  blood,  because  I  should  be  dead  long 
before  I  came  to  it.  Most  interesting,  and  quite  true. 
He  was  introduced  to  me  at  a  meeting  where  the  suf- 
fragettes kept  disturbing  me.  They  had  to  be  carried 
out  kicking  and  making  a  horrid  disturbance. 

CONRAD.  No:  it  was  later,  at  a  meeting  to  support 
the  Franchise  Bill  which  gave  them  the  vote. 

LUBIN  [discovering  Conrad*s  presence  for  the  first 
timel  Youre  right:  it  was.  I  knew  it  had  something 
to  do   with  women.     My  memory  never  deceives   me. 


64  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

Thank  jou.    Will  you  introduce  me  to  this  gentleman, 
Barnabas? 

CONRAD  Inot  at  all  affably']  I  am  the  Conrad  in  ques- 
tion. IHe  sits  down  in  dudgeon  on  the  vacant  Chippen- 
dale] . 

LUBiN.  Are  you?  [Looking  ai  him  pleasantly] 
Yes:  of  course  you  are.  I  never  forget  a  face.  But 
[with  an  arch  turn  of  his  eyes  to  Savvy]  your  pretty 
niece  engaged  all  my  powers  of  vision. 

BUEGE.  I  wish  youd  be  serious,  Lubin.  God  knows 
we  have  passed  through  times  terrible  enough  to  make 
any  man  serious. 

LUBIN.  I  do  not  think  I  need  to  be  reminded  of  that. 
In  peace  time  I  used  to  keep  myself  fresh  for  my  work 
by  banishing  all  worldly  considerations  from  my  mind 
on  Sundays;  but  war  has  no  respect  for  the  Sabbath; 
and  there  have  been  Sundays  within  the  last  few  years 
on  which  I  had  to  play  as  many  as  sixty-six  games  of 
bridge  to  keep  my  mind  off  the  news  from  the  front. 

BURGE  [scandalized]  Sixty-six  games  of  bridge  on 
Sunday! ! ! 

LUBIN.  You  probably  sang  sixty-six  hymns.  But  as 
I  cannot  boast  either  your  admirable  voice  or  your 
spiritual  fervor,  I  had  to  fall  back  on  bridge. 

FRANKLYN.  If  I  may  go  back  to  the  subject  of  your 
visit,  it  seems  to  me  that  you  may  both  be  completely 
superseded  by  the  Labor  Party. 

BURGE.  But  I  am  in  the  truest  sense  myself  a  Labor 
leader.  I —  [he  stops,  as  Lubin  has  risen  with  a  half- 
suppressed  yawn,  and  is  already  talking  calmlyy  but 
without  a  pretence  of  interest]. 

LUBIN.  The  Labor  Party!  Oh  no,  Mr  Barnabas. 
No,  no,  no,  no,  no.  [He  moves  in  Savvy's  direction]. 
There  will  be  no  trouble  about  that.  Of  course  we  must 
give  them  a  few  seats:  more,  I  quite  admit,  than  we 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  65 

should  have  dreamt  of  leaving  to  them  before  the  war; 
but —  Iby  this  time  he  has  reached  the  sofa  where  Savvy 
and  Haslam  are  seated.  He  sits  down  between  them; 
takes  her  hand;  and  drops  the  subject  of  Labor^ .  Well, 
mj  dear  young  lady  ?  What  is  the  latest  news  ?  Whats 
going  on?  Have  you  seen  Shoddy's  new  play?  Tell 
me  all  about  it,  and  all  about  the  latest  books,  and  all 
about  everything. 

SAVVY.     You  have  not  met  Mr  Haslam.    Our  Rector. 

LUBiN  [who  has  quite  overlooked  Haslam]  Never 
heard  of  him.    Is  he  any  good? 

FRANKLYN.  I  was  introducing  him.  This  is  Mr 
Haslam. 

HASLAM.     How  d'ye  do! 

LUBiN.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr  Haslam.  Delighted 
to  meet  you.  [To  Sawy]  Well,  now,  how  many  books 
have  you  written? 

SAVVY  [rather  overwhelmed  but  attracted]  None.  I 
dont  write. 

LUBIN.  You  dont  say  so!  Well,  what  do  you  do? 
Music  ?     Skirt-dancing  ? 

SAVVY.     I  dont  do  anything. 

LUBIN.  Thank  God!  You  and  I  were  born  for  one 
another.    Who  is  your  favorite  poet,  Sally? 

SAVVY.     Savvy. 

LUBIN.  Savvy!  I  never  heard  of  him.  Tell  me  all 
about  him.    Keep  me  up  to  date. 

SAVVY.     It's  not  a  poet.    I  am  Savvy,  not  Sally. 

LUBIN.  Savvy!  Thats  a  funny  name,  and  very 
pretty.  Savvy.  It  sounds  Chinese.  What  does  it 
mean  ? 

CONRAD.     Short  for  Savage. 

LUBIN  [patting  her  hand]  La  belle  Sauvage. 

HASLAM  [rising  and  surrendering  Savvy  to  Lubin  by 


66  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

crossing  to  the  fireplace]  I  suppose  the  Church  is  out  of 
it  as  far  as  progressive  poHtics  are  concerned. 

BURGE.  Nonsense!  That  notion  about  the  Church 
being  unprogressive  is  one  of  those  shibboleths  that  our 
party  must  drop.  The  Church  is  all  right  essentially. 
Get  rid  of  the  establishment ;  get  rid  of  the  bishops ;  get 
rid  of  the  candlesticks;  get  rid  of  the  39  articles;  and 
the  Church  of  England  is  just  as  good  as  any  other 
Church ;  and  I  dont  care  who  hears  me  say  so. 

LUBiN.  It  doesnt  matter  a  bit  who  hears  you  say  so, 
my  dear  Burge.  [To  Sawy]  Who  did  you  say  your 
favorite  poet  was  ? 

SAVVY.     I  dont  make  pets  of  poets.    Who's  yours.? 

LUBiN.     Horace. 

SAVVY.     Horace  who.? 

LUBiN.  Quintus  Horatius  Flaccus:  the  noblest 
Roman  of  them  all,  my  dear. 

SAVVY.  Oh,  if  he  is  dead,  that  explains  it.  I  have  a 
theory  that  all  the  dead  people  we  feel  especially  inter- 
ested in  must  have  been  ourselves.  You  must  be  Horace's 
reincarnation. 

LUBiN  [delighted]  That  is  the  very  most  charming 
and  penetrating  and  intelligent  thing  that  has  ever  been 
said  to  me.  Barnabas:  will  you  exchange  daughters 
with  me?     I  can  give  you  your  choice  of  two. 

FRANKLYN.     Man  proposes.     Savvy  disposes. 

LUBiN.     What  does  Savvy  say? 

BURGE.     Lubin :  I  came  here  to  talk  politics. 

LUBiN.  Yes:  you  have  only  one  subject,  Burge.  I 
came  here  to  talk  to  Savvy.  Take  Burge  into  the  next 
room,  Barnabas ;  and  let  him  rip. 

BURGE  [half -angrily  y  half -indulgent]  No;  but  really, 
Lubin,  we  are  at  a  crisis — 

LUBIN.  My  dear  Burge,  life  is  a  disease;  and  the 
only  difference  between  one  man  and  another  is  the  stage 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  67 

of  the  disease  at  which  he  hves.  You  are  always  at  the 
crisis:  I  am  always  in  the  convalescent  stage.  I  enjoy 
convalescence.  It  is  the  part  that  makes  the  illness 
worth  while. 

SAVVY  [half-rising]  Perhaps  I'd  better  run  away.  I 
am  distracting  you. 

LUBiN  [makijig  her  sit  down  agairi]  Not  at  all,  my 
dear.  You  are  only  distracting  Burge.  Jolly  good 
thing  for  him  to  be  distracted  by  a  pretty  girl.  Just 
what  he  needs. 

BURGE.  I  sometimes  envy  you,  Lubin.  The  great 
movement  of  mankind,  the  giant  sweep  of  the  ages, 
passes  you  by  and  leaves  you  standing. 

LUBIN.  It  leaves  me  sitting,  and  quite  comfortable, 
thank  you.  Go  on  sweeping.  When  you  are  tired  of  it, 
come  back ;  and  you  wiU  find  England  where  it  was,  and 
me  in  my  accustomed  place,  with  Miss  Savvy  telling  me 
all  sorts  of  interesting  things. 

SAVVY  [who  has  been  growing  more  and  more  restlessli 
Dont  let  him  shut  3"ou  up,  Mr  Burge.  You  know,  Mr 
Lubin,  I  am  frightfully  interested  in  the  Labor  move- 
ment, and  in  Theosophy,  and  in  reconstruction  after  the 
war,  and  all  sorts  of  things.  I  daresay  the  flappers  in 
your  smart  set  are  tremendously  flattered  when  you  sit 
beside  them  and  are  nice  to  them  as  you  are  being  nice 
to  me ;  but  I  am  not  smart ;  and  I  am  no  use  as  a  flapper. 
I  am  dowdy  and  serious.  I  want  you  to  be  serious.  If 
you  refuse,  I  shall  go  and  sit  beside  Mr  Burge,  and  ask 
him  to  hold  my  hand. 

LUBIN.  He  wouldnt  know  how  to  do  it,  my  dear. 
Burge  has  a  reputation  as  a  profligate — 

BURGE  [starting']  Lubin:  this  is  monstrous.    I — 

LUBIN  [continuing]  — ^but  he  is  really  a  model  of 
domesticity.  His  name  is  coupled  with  all  the  most 
celebrated   beauties;    but    for   him    there    is    only    one 


68  Gtospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

woman;  and  that  is  not  you,  my  dear,  but  his  very 
charming  wife. 

BURGE.  You  are  destroying  my  character  in  the  act 
of  pretending  to  save  it.  Have  the  goodness  to  confine 
yourself  to  your  own  character  and  your  own  wife. 
Both  of  them  need  all  your  attention. 

LUBiN.  I  have  the  privilege  of  my  age  and  of  my 
transparent  innocence.  I  have  not  to  struggle  with  your 
volcanic  energy. 

BURGE  [with  an  immense  sense  of  'power']  No,  by 
George ! 

FRANKLYN.  I  think  I  shall  speak  both  for  my  brother 
and  myself,  and  possibly  also  for  my  daughter,  if  I  say 
that  since  the  object  of  your  visit  and  Mr  Joyce  Burge's 
is  to  some  extent  political,  we  should  hear  with  great 
interest  something  about  your  political  aims,  Mr  Lubin. 

LUBIN  [assenting  with  complete  good  humor,  and  he- 
coming  attentive,  clear,  and  businesslike  in  his  tone]  By 
all  means,  Mr  Barnabas.  What  we  have  to  consider 
first,  I  take  it,  is  what  prospect  there  is  of  our  finding 
you  beside  us  in  the  House  after  the  next  election. 

FRANKLYN.  When  I  speak  of  politics,  Mr  Lubin,  I 
am  not  thinking  of  elections,  or  available  seats,  or  party 
funds,  or  the  registers,  or  even,  I  am  sorry  to  have  to 
add,  of  parliament  as  it  exists  at  present.  I  had  much 
rather  you  talked  about  bridge  than  about  electioneer- 
ing: it  is  the  more  interesting  game  of  the  two. 

BURGE.     He  wants  to  discuss  principles,  Lubin. 

LUBIN  [very  cool  and  clear]  1  understand  Mr  Bar- 
nabas quite  well.  But  elections  are  unsettled  things: 
principles  are  settled  things. 

CONRAD  [impatiently]  Great  Heavens! — 

LUBIN  [interrupting  him  with  quiet  authority]  One 
moment,  Dr  Barnabas.  The  main  principles  on  which 
modem    civilized    society    is    founded    are   pretty    well 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  69 

understood  among  educated  p€ople.  That  is  what  our 
dangerously  half -educated  masses  and  their  pet — dema- 
gogues—if Burge  will  excuse  that  expression — 

BURGE.  Dont  mind  me.  Go  on.  I  shall  have  some- 
thing to  say  presently. 

LUBiN.  — that  is  what  our  dangerously  half-edu- 
cated people  do  not  realize.  Take  all  this  fuss  about 
the  Labor  Party,  with  its  imaginary  new  principles  and 
new  politics.  The  Labor  members  will  find  that  the  im- 
mutable laws  of  political  economy  take  no  more  notice 
of  their  ambitions  and  aspirations  than  the  law  of  gravi- 
tation. I  speak,  if  I  may  say  so,  with  knowledge ;  for  I 
have  made  a  special  study  of  the  Labor  question. 

FRANLYN   \_with  interest  and  some  surprise^  Indeed? 

LUBiN.  Yes.  It  occurred  quite  at  the  beginning  of 
my  career.  I  was  asked  to  deliver  an  address  to  the 
students  at  the  Working  Men's  College;  and  I  was 
strongly  advised  to  comply,  as  Gladstone  and  Morley 
and  others  were  doing  that  sort  of  thing  at  the  moment. 
It  was  rather  a  troublesome  job,  because  I  had  not  gone 
into  political  economy  at  the  time.  As  you  know,  at  the 
university  I  was  a  classical  scholar;  and  my  profession 
was  the  Law.  But  I  looked  up  the  text-books,  and  got 
up  the  case  most  carefully.  I  found  that  the  correct 
view  is  that  all  this  Trade  Unionism  and  Socialism  and 
so  forth  is  founded  on  the  ignorant  delusion  that  wages 
and  the  production  and  distribution  of  wealth  can  be 
controlled  by  legislation  or  by  any  human  action  what- 
ever. They  obey  fixed  scientific  laws,  which  have  been 
ascertained  and  settled  finally  by  the  highest  economic 
authorities.  Naturally  I  do  not  at  this  distance  of  time 
remember  the  exact  process  of  reasoning;  but  I  can  get 
up  the  case  again  at  any  time  in  a  couple  of  days ;  and 
you  may  rely  on  me  absolutely,  should  the  occasion 
arise,  to  deal  with  all  these  ignorant  and  unpractical 


70  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

people  in  a  conclusive  and  convincing  way,  except,  of 
course,  as  far  as  it  may  be  advisable  to  indulge  and  flat- 
ter them  a  little  so  as  to  let  them  down  without  creating 
ill  feeling  in  the  working-class  electorate.  In  short,  I 
can  get  that  lecture  up  again  almost  at  a  moment's 
notice. 

SAVVY.  But,  Mr  Lubin,  I  have  had  a  university  edu- 
cation too;  and  all  this  about  wages  and  distribution 
being  fixed  by  immutable  laws  of  political  economy  is 
obsolete  rot. 

FRANKLYN  [shockcd]  Oh,  my  dear!  That  is  not 
polite. 

LUBIN.  No,  no,  no.  Dont  scold  her.  She  mustnt  be 
scolded.  \^To  Savvy^  I  understand.  You  are  a  disciple 
of  Karl  Marx. 

SAVVY.     No,  no.     Karl  Marx's  economies  are  all  rot. 

LUBIN  [at  last  a  little  taken  ahack'\  Dear  me! 

SAVVY.  You  must  excuse  me,  Mr  Lubin ;  but  it's  like 
hearing  a  man  talk  about  the  Garden  of  Eden. 

CONRAD.  Why  shouldnt  he  talk  about  the  Garden  of 
Eden?    It  was  a  first  attempt  at  biology  anyhow. 

LUBIN  [recovering  his  self-possession]  I  am  sound  on 
the  Garden  of  Eden.    I  have  heard  of  Darwin. 

SAVVY.     But  Darwin  is  all  rot. 

LUBIN.     What !    Already ! 

SAVVY.  It's  no  good  your  smiling  at  me  like  a 
Cheshire  cat,  Mr  Lubin ;  and  I  am  not  going  to  sit  here 
mumchance  like  an  old-fashioned  goody-goody  wife 
while  you  men  monopolize  the  conversation  and  pay  out 
the  very  ghastliest  exploded  drivel  as  the  latest  thing  in 
politics.  I  am  not  giving  you  my  own  ideas,  Mr  Lubin, 
but  just  the  regular  orthodox  science  of  to-day.  Only 
the  most  awful  old  fossils  think  that  Socialism  is  bad 
economics  and  that  Darwin  invented  Evolution.  Ask 
Papa.    Ask  Uncle.    Ask  the  first  person  you  meet  in  the 


Part  II    Gk)spel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  71 

street.  [She  rises  and  crosses  to  Haslam] .  Give  me  a 
cigaret,  Bill,  will  you? 

HASLAM.     Priceless.      \^He  complies^* 

FRANKLYN.  Savvy  has  not  lived  long  enough  to  have 
any  manners,  Mr  Lubin;  but  that  is  where  you  stand 
with  the  younger  generation.     Dont  smoke,  dear. 

Savvy y  with  a  shrug  of  rather  mutinous  resignation, 
throws  the  cigaret  into  the  -fire.  Haslam^  on  the  point 
of  lighting  one  for  himself,  changes  his  mind, 

LUBIN  {^shrewd  and  serious']  Mr  Barnabas :  I  confess 
I  am  surprised;  and  I  will  not  pretend  that  I  am  con- 
vinced.   But  I  am  open  to  conviction.    I  may  be  wrong. 

BURGE  [in  a  hurst  of  irony]  Oh  no.  Impossible!  Im- 
possible ! 

LUBIN.  Yes,  Mr  Barnabas,  though  I  do  not  possess 
Burge's  genius  for  being  always  wrong,  I  have  been  in 
that  position  once  or  twice.  I  could  not  conceal  from 
you,  even  if  I  wished  to,  that  my  time  has  been  so  com- 
pletely filled  by  my  professional  work  as  a  lawyer,  and 
later  on  by  my  duties  as  leader  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons in  the  days  when  Prime  Ministers  were  also 
leaders — 

BUEGE  [stung]  Not  to  mention  bridge  and  smart 
society. 

LUBIN.  — not  to  mention  the  continual  and  trying 
effort  to  make  Burge  behave  himself,  that  I  have  not 
been  able  to  keep  my  academic  reading  up  to  date.  I 
have  kept  my  classics  brushed  up  out  of  sheer  love  for 
them;  but  my  economics  and  my  science,  such  as  they 
were,  may  possibly  be  a  little  rusty.  Yet  I  think  I  may 
say  that  if  you  and  your  brother  will  be  so  good  as  to 
put  me  on  the  track  of  the  necessary  documents,  I  will 
undertake  to  put  the  case  to  the  House  or  to  the  country 
to  your  entire  satisfaction.  You  see,  as  long  as  you 
can  shew  these  troublesome  half-educated  people  who 


72  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

want  to  turn  the  world  upside  down  that  they  are  talk- 
ing nonsense,  it  really  does  not  matter  very  much 
whether  you  do  it  in  terms  of  what  Miss  Barnabas  calls 
obsolete  rot  or  in  terms  of  what  her  granddaughter  will 
probably  call  unmitigated  tosh.  I  have  no  objection 
whatever  to  denounce  Karl  Marx.  Anything  I  can  say 
against  Darwin  will  please  a  large  body  of  sincerely 
pious  voters.  If  it  will  be  easier  to  carry  on  the  busi- 
ness of  the  country  on  the  understanding  that  the 
present  state  of  things  is  to  be  called  Socialism,  I  have 
no  objection  in  the  world  to  call  it  Socialism.  There  is 
the  precedent  of  the  Emperor  Constantine,  who  saved 
the  society  of  his  own  day  by  agreeing  to  call  his  Im- 
perialism Christianity.  Mind:  I  must  not  go  ahead  of 
the  electorate.  You  must  not  call  a  voter  a  Socialist 
until — 

FRANKLYN.     Until  he  is  a  Socialist.    Agreed. 

LUBiN.  Oh,  not  at  all.  You  need  not  wait  for  that. 
You  must  not  call  him  a  Socialist  until  he  wishes  to  be 
tailed  a  Socialist :  that  is  all.  Surely  you  would  not  say 
that  I  must  not  address  my  constituents  as  gentlemen 
until  they  are  gentlemen.  I  address  them  as  gentlemen 
because  they  wish  to  be  so  addressed.  iHe  rises  from 
the  sofa  and  goes  to  FranMyn^  placing  a  reassuring 
hand  on  his  shoulder^.  Do  not  be  afraid  of  Socialism, 
Mr  Barnabas.  You  need  not  tremble  for  your  property 
or  your  position  or  your  dignity.  England  will  remain 
what  England  is,  no  matter  what  new  political  names 
may  come  into  vogue.  I  do  not  intend  to  resist  the 
transition  to  Socialism.  You  may  depend  on  me  to  guide 
it,  to  lead  it,  to  give  suitable  expression  to  its  aspira- 
tions, and  to  steer  it  clear  of  Utopian  absurdities.  I  can 
honestly  ask  for  your  support  on  the  most  advanced 
Socialist  grounds  no  less  than  on  the  soundest  Liberal 
ones. 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  73 

BURGE.  In  short,  Lubin,  youre  incorrigible.  You 
dont  believe  anything  is  going  to  change.  The  millions 
are  still  to  toil — the  people-^my  people — for  I  am  a 
man  of  the  people — 

LUBIN  [^interrupting  him  contemptuously^  Dont  be 
ridiculous,  Burge.  You  are  a  country  solicitor,  further 
removed  from  the  people,  more  foreign  to  them,  more 
jealous  of  letting  them  up  to  your  level,  than  any  duke 
or  any  archbishop. 

BURGE  \_hotly']  I  deny  it.  You  think  I  have  never  been 
poor.  You  think  I  have  never  cleaned  my  own  boots. 
You  think  my  fingers  have  never  come  out  through  the 
soles  when  I  was  cleaning  them.    You  think — 

LUBIN.  I  think  you  fall  into  the  very  common  mis- 
take of  supposing  that  it  is  poverty  that  makes  the 
proletarian  and  money  that  makes  the  gentleman.  You 
are  quite  wrong.  You  never  belonged  to  the  people: 
you  belonged  to  the  impecunious.  Impecuniosity  and 
broken  boots  are  the  lot  of  the  unsuccessful  middle  class, 
and  the  commonplaces  of  the  early  struggles  of  the  pro- 
fessional and  younger  son  class.  I  defy  you  to  find  a 
farm  laborer  in  England  with  broken  boots.  Call  a 
mechanic  one  of  the  poor,  and  he'll  punch  your  head. 
When  you  talk  to  your  constituents  about  the  toiling 
millions,  they  dont  consider  that  you  are  referring  to 
them.  They  are  all  third  cousins  of  somebody  with  a 
title  or  a  park.  I  am  a  Yorkshireman,  my  friend.  I 
know  England;  and  you  dont.  If  you  did  you  would 
know — 

BUBGE.     What  do  you  know  that  I  don't  know? 

LUBIN.  I  know  that  we  are  taking  up  too  much  of 
Mr.  Barnabas's  time.  {Franhlyn  rises].  May  I  take  it. 
my  dear  Barnabas,  that  I  may  count  on  your  support  if 
we  succeed  in  forcing  an  election  before  the  n^w  register 
is  in  full  working  order? 


74  Gk)spel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

BUB.GE  Irising  also]  May  the  party  count  on  your 
support?  I  say  nothing  about  myself.  Can  the  party 
depend  on  you?  Is  there  any  question  of  yours  that  I 
have  left  unanswered? 

coNEAD.     We  havent  asked  you  any,  you  know. 

BURGE.     May  I  take  that  as  a  mark  of  confidence? 

CONRAD.  If  I  were  a  laborer  in  your  constituency,  I 
should  ask  you  a  biological  question? 

liUBiN.  No  you  wouldnt,  my  dear  Doctor.  Laborers 
never  ask  questions. 

BURGE.  Ask  it  now.  I  have  never  flinched  from 
being  heckled.    Out  with  it.    Is  it  about  the  land? 

CONRAD.      No. 

BURGE.     Is  it  about  the  Church? 

CONRAD.      No. 

BURGE.     Is  it  about  the  House  of  Lords? 

CONRAD.       No. 

BURGE.     Is  it  about  Proportional  Representation? 

CONRAD.      No. 

BURGE.     Is  it  about  Free  Trade? 

CONRAD.      No. 

BURGE.     Is  it  about  the  priest  in  the  school? 

CONRAD.       No. 

BURGE.     Is  it  about  Ireland? 

CONRAD.       No. 

BURGE.     Is  it  about  Germany? 

CONRAD.       No. 

BURGE.  Well,  IS  it  about  Republicanism?  Come!  I 
wont  flinch.    Is  it  about  the  Monarchy  ? 

CONRAD.       No. 

BURGE.     Well,  what  the  devil  is  it  about,  then? 

CONRAD.  You  understand  that  I  am  asking  the  ques- 
tion in  the  character  of  a  laborer  who  earned  thirteen 
shillings  a  week  before  the  war  and  earns  thirty  now, 
when  he  can  get  it? 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  75 

BUEGE.  Yes :  I  understand  that.  I  am  ready  for  you. 
Out  with  it. 

CONRAD.  And  whom  you  propose  to  represent  in 
parliament  ? 

BUEGE.     Yes,  yes,  yes.     Come  on. 

CONEAD.  The  question  is  this.  Would  you  allow 
your  son  to  marry  my  daughter,  or  your  daughter  to 
marry  my  son.? 

BUEGE  [taken  aback^  Oh,  come!  Thats  not  a  politi- 
cal question. 

CONEAD.  Then,  as  a  biologist,  I  dont  take  the  slight- 
est interest  in  your  politics !  and  I  shall  not  walk  across 
the  street  to  vote  for  you  or  anyone  else  at  the  election. 
Good  evening. 

jLUBiN.  Serve  you  right,  Burge!  Dr  Barnabas:  you 
have  my  assurance  that  my  daughter  shall  marry  the 
man  of  her  choice,  whether  he  be  lord  or  laborer.  May 
/  count  on  your  support.? 

BUEGE  [hurling  the  epithet  at  him']  Humbug! 

SAVVY.  Stop,  [They  all  stop  short  in  the  movement 
of  leavetaking  to  look  at  her  ] .  Daddy :  are  you  going 
to  let  them  off  like  this.?  How  are  they  to  know  any- 
thing if  nobody  ever  tells  them?    If  you  dont,  I  will. 

CONEAD.  You  cant.  You  didnt  read  my  book;  and 
you  know  nothing  about  it.    You  just  hold  your  tongue. 

SAVVY.  I  just  wont,  Nunk.  I  shall  have  a  vote  when 
I  am  thirty;  and  I  ought  to  have  it  now.  Why  are 
these  two  ridiculous  people  to  be  allowed  to  come  in  and 
walk  over  us  as  if  the  world  existed  only  to  play  their 
silly  parliamentary  game.? 

FEANKLYN  [severely]  Savvy:  you  really  must  not  be 
uncivil  to  our  guests. 

SAVVY.  I'm  sorry.  But  Mr  Lubin  didnt  stand  on 
much  ceremony  with  me,  did  he?  And  Mr  Burge  hasnt 
addressed  a  single  word  to  me.     I'm  not  going  to  stand 


76  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

it.  You  and  Nunk  have  a  much  better  program  than 
either  of  them.  It's  the  only  one  we  are  going  to  vote 
for ;  and  they  ought  to  be  told  about  it  for  the  credit  of 
the  family  and  the  good  of  their  own  souls.  You  just 
tip  them  a  chapter  from  the  gospel  of  the  brothers  Bar- 
nabas, Daddy. 

Lubin  and  Burge  turn  enquiringly  to  Franklyn, 
suspecting  a  move  to  form  a  new  party, 

FRANKLYN.  It  is  quitc  true,  Mr  Lubin,  that  I  and 
my  brother  have  a  little  program  of  our  own  which — 

CONRAD  [interrupting~\  It's  not  a  little  program:  it's 
an  almighty  big  one.  It's  not  our  own :  it's  the  progi'am 
of  the  whole  of  civilization. 

BURGE.  Then  why  split  the  party  before  you  have 
put  it  to  us  ?  For  God's  sake  let  us  have  no  more  splits. 
I  am  here  to  learn.  I  am  here  to  gather  your  opinions 
and  represent  them.  I  invite  you  to  put  your  views 
before  me.  I  offer  myself  to  be  heckled.  You  have 
asked  me  only  an  absurd  non-political  question. 

FRANKI.YN.  Candidly,  I  fear  our  program  will  be 
thrown  away  on  you.     It  would  not  interest  you. 

BURGE  [with  challenging  audacity^  Try.  Lubin  can 
go  if  he  likes ;  but  I  am  still  open  to  new  ideas,  if  only  I 
can  find  them. 

FRANKLYN  [to  Luhtn^  Are  you  prepared  to  listen, 
Mr  Lubin ;  or  shall  I  thank  you  for  your  very  kind  and 
welcome  visit,  and  say  good  evening? 

LUBIN  [sitting  down  resignedly  on  the  settee,  hut  in- 
voluntarily making  a  movement  which  looks  like  the 
stifling  of  a  yaw7i\  With  pleasure,  Mr  Barnabas.  Of 
course  you  know  that  before  I  can  adopt  any  new  plank 
in  the  party  platform,  it  will  have  to  reach  me  through 
the  National  Liberal  Federation,  which  you  can  ap- 
proach through  your  local  Liberal  and  Radical  Asso- 
ciation. 


Part  II    Gk)spel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  77 

PRANKLYN.  I  could  recall  to  you  several  instances  of 
the  addition  to  your  party  program  of  measures  of 
which  no  local  branch  of  your  Federation  had  ever 
dreamt.  But  I  understand  that  you  are  not  really  inter- 
ested.   I  will  spare  you,  and  drop  the  subject. 

LUBiN  [waking  up  a  little']  You  quite  misunderstand 
me.    Please  do  not  take  it  in  that  way.    I  only — 

BURGE  [talking  him  down]  Never  mind  the  Federa- 
tion: /  will  answer  for  the  Federation.  Go  on,  Bar- 
nabas: go  on.  Never  mind  Lubin  [he  sits  down  in  the 
chair  from  which  Lubin  first  displaced  him] . 

FRANKLYN.  Our  program  is  only  that  the  term  of 
human  life  shall  be  extended  to  three  hundred  years. 

LUBIN  [softly]  Eh? 

BURGE  [explosively]  What! 

SAVVY.     Our  election  cry  is  "Back  to  Methuselah !" 

HASLAM.     Priceless ! 

Lubin  and  Burge  look  at  one  another. 

CONRAD.     No.    We  are  not  mad. 

SAVVY.     Theyre  not  joking  either.    They  mean  it. 

LUBIN  [cautiously]  Assuming  that,  in  some  sense 
which  I  am  for  the  moment  unable  to  fathom,  you  are  in 
earnest,  Mr  Barnabas,  may  I  ask  what  this  has  to  do 
with  politics? 

FRANKLYN.  The  couuexiou  is  very  evident.  You  are 
now,  Mr  Lubin,  within  immediate  reach  of  your 
seventieth  year.  Mr  Joyce  Burge  is  your  junior  by 
about  eleven  years.  You  will  go  down  to  posterity  as 
one  of  a  European  group  of  immature  statesmen  and 
monarchs  who,  doing  the  very  best  for  your  respective 
countries  of  which  you  were  capable,  succeeded  in  all- 
but-wrecking  the  civilization  of  Europe,  and  did,  in 
effect,  wipe  out  of  existence  many  billions  of  its  in- 
habitants. 

BURGE.     Less  than  a  million. 


78  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

FRANKLYN.     That  was  our  loss  alone. 

BUEGE.     Oh,  if  you  count  foreigners — ! 

HASLAM.     God  counts  foreigners,  you  know. 

SAWY  Imth  intense  mtisfaction~\  Well  said.  Bill. 

FRANKLYN.  I  am  uot  blaming  you.  Your  task  was 
beyond  human  capacity.  What  with  our  huge  arma- 
ments, our  terrible  engines  of  destruction,  our  systems 
of  coercion  manned  by  an  irresistible  police,  you  were 
called  on  to  control  powers  so  gigantic  that  one  shudders 
at  the  thought  of  their  being  entrusted  even  to  an  in- 
finitely experienced  and  benevolent  God,  much  less  to 
mortal  men  whose  whole  life  does  not  last  a  hundred 
years. 

BURGE.     We  won  the  war :  dont  forget  that. 

FRANKLYN.  No :  the  soldiers  and  sailors  won  it,  and 
left  you  to  finish  it.  And  you  were  so  utterly  incom- 
petent that  the  multitudes  of  children  slain  by  hunger 
in  the  first  years  of  peace  made  us  all  wish  we  were  at 
war  again. 

CONRAD.  It's  no  use  arguing  about  it.  It  is  now 
absolutely  certain  that  the  political  and  social  problems 
raised  by  our  civilization  cannot  be  solved  by  mere 
human  mushrooms  who  decay  and  die  when  they  are  just 
beginning  to  have  a  glimmer  of  the  wisdom  and  knowl- 
edge needed  for  their  own  government. 

LUBiN.  Quite  an  interesting  idea,  Doctor.  Extrava- 
gant. Fantastic.  But  quite  interesting.  When  I  was 
young  I  used  to  feel  my  human  limitations  very  acutely. 

BURGE.  God  knows  I  have  often  felt  that  I  could  not 
go  on  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  sense  that  I  was  only  an 
instrument  in  the  hands  of  a  Power  above  us. 

CONRAD.  I'm  glad  you  both  agree  with  us,  and  with 
one  another. 

LUBIN.     I  have  not  gone  so  far  as  that,  I  think. 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  79 

After  all,  we  have  had  many  very  able  political  leaders 
even  within  your  recollection  and  mine. 

FEANKLYN.  Have  you  read  the  recent  biographies — 
Dilke's,  for  instance — which  revealed  the  truth  about 
them? 

LUBiN.  I  did  not  discover  any  new  truth  revealed  in 
these  books,  Mr  Barnabas. 

FRANKLYN.  What !  Not  the  truth  that  England  was 
governed  all  that  time  by  a  little  woman  who  knew  her 
own  mind? 

SAVVY.     Hear,  hear! 

LUBIN.  That  often  happens.  Which  woman  do  you 
mean  ? 

FEANKLYN.  Queeu  A^ictoria,  to  whom  your  Prime 
Ministers  stood  in  the  relation  of  naughty  children 
whose  heads  she  knocked  together  when  their  tempers 
and  quarrels  became  intolerable.  Within  thirteen  years 
of  her  death  Europe  became  a  hell. 

BUEGE.  Quite  true.  That  was  because  she  was 
piously  brought  up,  and  regarded  herself  as  an  instru- 
ment. If  a  statesman  remembers  that  he  is  only  an 
instrument,  and  feels  quite  sure  that  he  is  rightly  inter- 
preting  the  divine  purpose,  he  will  come  out  all  right, 
you  know. 

FEANKLYN.  The  Kaiscr  felt  like  that.  Did  he  come 
out  all  right? 

BUEGE.  Well,  let  us  be  fair,  even  to  the  Kaiser.  Let 
us  be  fair. 

FEANKLYN.  Were  you  fair  to  him  when  you  won  an 
election  on  the  program  of  hanging  him  ? 

BUEGE.  Stuff !  I  am  the  last  man  alive  to  hang  any- 
body ;  but  the  people  wouldnt  listen  to  reason.  Besides, 
I  knew  the  Dutch  wouldnt  give  him  up. 

SAVVY.  Oh,  dont  start  arguing  about  poor  old  Bill. 
Stick  to  our  point.     Let  these  two  gentlemen  settle  the 


80  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

question  for  themselves.  Mr  Burge:  do  you  think  Mr 
Lubin  is  fit  to  govern  England? 

SURGE.     No.     Frankly,  I  dont. 

I.UBIN  [^remonstrant']  Really! 

CONRAD.     Why  ? 

BURGE.     Because  he  has  no  conscience:  thats  why. 

LUBIN  [shocked  and  amazed]  Oh ! 

FRANKLYN.  Mr  Lubin :  do  you  consider  Joyce  Burge 
qualified  to  govern  England? 

LUBIN  [mth  dignified  emotion,  wounded,  but  without 
bitterness]  Excuse  me,  Mr  Barnabas;  but  before  I 
answer  that  question  I  want  to  say  this.  Burge :  we  have 
had  differences  of  opinion;  and  your  newspaper  friends 
have  said  hard  things  of  me.  But  we  worked  together 
for  years;  and  I  hope  I  have  done  nothing  to  justify 
you  in  the  amazing  accusation  you  have  just  brought 
against  me.  Do  you  realize  that  you  said  that  I  have 
no  conscience? 

BURGE.  Lubin :  I  am  very  accessible  to  an  appeal  to 
my  emotions ;  and  you  are  very  cunning  in  making  such 
appeals.  I  will  meet  you  to  this  extent.  I  dont  mean 
that  you  are  a  bad  man.  I  dont  mean  that  I  dislike  you, 
in  spite  of  your  continual  attempts  to  discourage  and 
depress  me.  But  you  have  a  mind  like  a  looking-glass. 
You  are  very  clear  and  smooth  and  lucid  as  to  what  is 
standing  in  front  of  you.  But  you  have  no  foresight 
and  no  hindsight.  You  have  no  vision  and  no  memory. 
You  have  no  continuity ;  and  a  man  without  continuity 
can  have  neither  conscience  nor  honor  from  one  day  to 
another.  The  result  is  that  yau  have  always  been  a 
damned  bad  minister;  and  you  have  sometimes  been  a 
damned  bad  friend.  Now  you  can  answer  Barnabas' 
question  and  take  it  out  of  me  to  your  heart's  content. 
He  asked  you  was  I  fit  to  govern  England. 

LUBIN    [recovering    himself]    After    what    has    just 


I 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  81 

passed  I  sincerely  wish  I  could  honestly  say  yes,  Burge. 
But  it  seems  to  me  that  you  have  condemned  yourself 
out  of  your  own  mouth.  You  represent  something 
which  has  had  too  much  influence  and  popularity  in  this 
country  since  Joseph  Chamberlain  set  the  fashion;  and 
that  is  mere  energy  without  intellect  and  without  knowl- 
edge. Your  mind  is  not  a  trained  mind :  it  has  not  been 
stored  with  the  best  information,  nor  cultivated  by 
intercourse  with  educated  minds  at  any  of  our  great 
seats  of  learning.  As  I  happen  to  have  enjoyed  that 
advantage,  it  follows  that  you  do  not  understand  my 
mind.  Candidly,  I  think  that  disqualifies  you.  The 
peace  found  out  your  weaknesses. 

BURGE.     Oh!    What  did  it  find  out  in  you? 

LUBiN.  You  and  your  newspaper  confederates  took 
the  peace  out  of  my  hands.  The  peace  did  not  find  me 
out  because  it  did  not  find  me  in. 

FRANKLYN.  Come !  Coufess,  both  of  you.  You 
were  only  flies  on  the  wheel.  The  war  went  England's 
way ;  but  the  peace  went  its  own  way,  and  not  England's 
way  nor  any  of  the  ways  you  had  so  glibly  appointed 
for  it.  Your  peace  treaty  was  a  scrap  of  paper  before 
the  ink  dried  on  it.  The  statesmen  of  Europe  were  in- 
capable of  governing  Europe.  What  they  needed  was  a 
couple  of  hundred  years  training  and  experience:  what 
they  actually  had  was  a  few  years  at  the  bar  or  in  a 
counting-house  or  on  the  grouse  moors  and  golf  courses. 
And  now  we  are  waiting,  with  monster  cannons  trained 
on  every  city  and  seaport,  and  huge  aeroplanes  ready 
to  spring  into  the  air  and  drop  bombs  every  one  of 
which  wiU  obliterate  a  whole  street,  and  poison  gases 
that  will  strike  multitudes  dead  with  a  breath,  until  one 
of  you  gentlemen  rises  in  his  helplessness  to  tell  us,  who 
are  as  helpless  as  himself,  that  we  are  at  war  again. 

CONRAD.     Aha!     What  consolation  will  it  be  for  us 


82  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

then  that  jou  two  are  able  to  teU  off  one  another's 
defects  so  cleverly  in  your  afternoon  chat? 

BURGE  [angrili/^  If  you  come  to  that,  what  consola- 
tion will  it  be  that  you  two  can  sit  there  and  tell  both  of 
us  off?  you,  who  have  had  no  responsibility!  you,  who 
havnt  lifted  a  finger,  as  far  as  I  know,  to  help  us 
through  this  awful  crisis  which  has  left  me  ten  years 
older  than  my  proper  age!  Can  you  tell  me  a  single 
thing  you  did  to  help  us  during  the  whole  infernal 
business? 

CONEAD.  We're  not  blaming  you:  you  hadnt  lived 
long  enough.  No  more  had  we.  Cant  you  see  that 
three-score-and-ten,  though  it  may  be  long  enough  for 
a  very  crude  sort  of  village  life,  isnt  long  enough  for  a 
complicated  civilization  like  ours?  Flinders  Petrie  has 
counted  nine  attempts  at  civilization  made  by  people 
exactly  like  us ;  and  everyone  of  them  failed  just  as  ours 
is  failing.  They  failed  because  the  citizens  and  states- 
men died  of  old  age  or  overeating  before  they  had 
grown  out  of  schoolboy  games  and  savage  sports  and 
cigars  and  champagne.  The  signs  of  the  end  are 
always  the  same:  Democracy,  Socialism,  and  Votes  for 
Women.  We  shall  go  to  smash  within  the  lifetime  of 
men  now  living  unless  we  recognize  that  we  must  live 
longer. 

liUBiN.  I  am  glad  you  agree  with  me  that  Socialism 
and  Votes  for  Women  are  signs  of  decay. 

FRANKLYN.  Not  at  all:  they  are  only  the  difficulties 
that  overtax  your  capacity.  If  you  cannot  organize 
Socialism  you  cannot  organize  civilized  life;  and  you 
will  relapse  into  barbarism  accordingly. 

SAVVY.     Hear,  hear! 

BURGE.  A  useful  point.  We  cannot  put  back  the 
clock. 

HASLAM.    /  can.     Ive  often  done  it. 


Part  II    Gk)spel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  83 

LUBiN.  Tut  tut!  My  dear  Burge:  what  are  you 
dreaming  of?  Mr.  Barnabas:  I  am  a  very  patient  man. 
But  will  you  tell  me  what  earthly  use  or  interest  there 
is  in  a  conclusion  that  cannot  be  realized.?  I  grant  you 
that  if  we  could  live  three  hundred  years  we  should  all 
be,  perhaps  wiser,  certainly  older.  You  will  grant  me 
in  return,  I  hope,  that  if  the  sky  fell  we  should  all  catch 
larks. 

FRANKLYN.    Your  turn  now,  Conrad.     Go  ahead. 

CONRAD.  I  dont  think  it's  any  good.  I  dont  think 
they  want  to  live  longer  than  usual. 

LUBIN.  Although  I  am  a  mere  child  of  69,  I  am  old 
enough  to  have  lost  the  habit  of  crying  for  the  moon. 

BUEGE.  Have  you  discovered  the  elixir  of  life  or  have 
you  not  ?  If  not,  I  agree  with  Lubin  that  you  are  wast- 
ing our  time. 

CONRAD.    Is  your  time  of  any  value.? 

BURGE  [unable  to  believe  his  ears]  My  time  of  any 
value !    What  do  you  mean  ? 

LUBIN  [smiling  comfortably]  From  your  high  scien- 
tific point  of  view,  I  daresay,  none  whatever,  Professor. 
In  any  case  I  think  a  little  perfectly  idle  discussion 
would  do  Burge  good.  After  all,  we  might  as  well  hear 
about  the  elixir  of  life  as  read  novels,  or  whatever  Burge 
does  when  he  is  not  playing  golf  on  Walton  Heath. 
What  is  your  elixir,  Dr  Barnabas?  Lemons?  Sour 
milk?     Or  what  is  the  latest? 

BURGE.  We  were  just  beginning  to  talk  seriously; 
and  now  you  snatch  at  the  chance  of  talking  rot.  [He 
rises].     Good  evening.      [He  turns  to  the  door], 

CONRAD  [rudely]  Die  as  soon  as  you  like.  Good  even- 
ing. 

BURGE  [hesitating]  Look  here.  I  took  sour  milk  twice 
a  day  until  Metchnikoff  died.  He  thought  it  would  keep 
him  alive  for  ever;  and  he  died  of  it. 


S4s  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

CONRAD.    You  might  as  well  have  taken  sour  beer. 

BURGE.    You  believe  in  lemons? 

CONRAD.     I  wouldnt  eat  a  lemon  for  ten  pounds. 

BURGE  \_sitting  down  again]  What  do  you  recom- 
mend? 

CONRAD  [rising  with  a  gesture  of  despair']  Whats  the 
use  of  going  on,  Frank?  Because  I  am  a  doctor,  and 
because  they  think  I  have  a  bottle  to  give  them  that  will 
make  them  live  for  ever,  they  are  listening  to  me  for  the 
first  time  with  their  mouths  open  and  their  eyes  shut. 
Thats  their  notion  of  science. 

SAVVY.     Steady,  Nunk !    Hold  the  fort. 

CONRAD  [growls  and  sits  down^  !  !  ! 

LUBiN.  You  volunteered  the  consultation,  Doctor.  I 
may  tell  you  that,  far  from  sharing  the  credulity  as  to 
science  which  is  now  the  fashion,  I  am  prepared  to  dem- 
onstrate that  during  the  last  fifty  years,  though  the 
Church  has  often  been  wrong,  and  even  the  Liberal  Party 
has  not  been  infallible,  the  men  of  science  have  always 
been  wrong. 

CONRAD.  Yes:  the  fellows  you  call  men  of  science. 
The  people  who  make  money  by  it,  and  their  medical 
hangers-on.    But  has  anybody  been  right  ? 

LUBIN.  The  poets  and  story  tellers,  especially  the 
classical  poets  and  story  tellers,  have  been,  in  the  main, 
right.  I  will  ask  you  not  to  repeat  this  as  my  opinion 
outside;  for  the  vote  of  the  medical  profession  and  its 
worshippers  is  not  to  be  trifled  with. 

FRANKLYN.  You  are  quite  right :  the  poem  is  our  real 
clue  to  biological  science.  The  most  scientific  document 
we  possess  at  present  is,  as  your  grandmother  would 
have  told  you  quite  truly,  the  story  of  the  Garden  of 
Eden. 

BURGE  [pricking  up  his  ears]  Whats  that?  If  you 
can  establish  that,  Barnabas,  I  am  prepared  to  hear  you 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  85 

out  with  my  very  best  attention.  I  am  listening. 
Go  on. 

FRANKLYN.  Well,  you  remember,  dont  you,  that  in 
the  Garden  of  Eden  Adam  and  Eve  were  not  created 
mortal,  and  that  natural  death,  as  we  call  it,  was  not  a 
part  of  life,  but  a  later  and  quite  separate  invention? 

BURGE.  Now  you  mention  it,  thats  true.  Death  came 
afterwards. 

LUBiN.  What  about  accidental  death?  That  was 
always  possible. 

FRANKLYN.  Precisely.  Adam  and  Eve  were  hung  up 
between  two  frightful  possibilities.  One  was  the  extinc- 
tion of  mankind  b}'^  their  accidental  death.  The  other 
was  the  prospect  of  living  for  ever.  They  could  bear 
neither.  They  decided  that  they  would  just  take  a  short 
turn  of  a  thousand  years,  and  meanwhile  hand  on  their 
work  to  a  new  pair.  Consequently,  they  had  to  invent 
natural  birth  and  natural  death,  which  are,  after  all, 
only  modes  of  perpetuating  life  without  putting  on  any 
single  creature  the  terrible  burden  of  ijnmortality. 

LUBiN.    I  see.    The  old  must  make  room  for  the  new. 

BURGE.  Death  is  nothing  but  making  room.  Thats 
all  there  is  in  it  or  ever  has  been  in  it. 

FRANKLYN.  Ycs ;  but  the  old  must  not  desert  their 
posts  until  the  new  are  ripe  for  them.  They  desert  them 
now  two  hundred  years  too  soon. 

SAVVY.  I  believe  the  old  people  are  the  new  people  re- 
incarnated, Nunk.  I  suspect  I  am  Eve.  I  am  very  fond 
of  apples;  and  they  always  disagree  with  me. 

CONRAD.  You  are  Eve,  in  a  sense.  The  Eternal  Life 
persists ;  only  It  wears  out  Its  bodies  and  minds  and  gets 
new  ones,  like  new  clothes.  You  are  only  a  new  hat  and 
frock  on  Eve. 

FRANKLYN.  Ycs.  Bodies  and  minds  ever  better  and 
better  fitted  to  carry  out  Its  eternal  pursuit. 


86  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

LUBiN  [with  quiet  scepticism^  What  pursuit,  may  one 
ask,  Mr  Barnabas? 

FEANKLYN.  The  pursuit  of  omnipotence  and  om- 
niscience. Greater  power  and  greater  knowledge:  these 
are  what  we  are  all  pursuing  even  at  the  risk  of  our  lives 
and  the  sacrifice  of  our  pleasures.  Evolution  is  that 
pursuit  and  nothing  else.  It  is  the  path  of  godhead. 
A  man  differs  from  a  microbe  only  in  being  further  on 
the  path. 

LUBIN.  And  how  soon  do  you  expect  this  modest  end 
to  be  reached? 

FEANKI.YN.  Ncver,  thank  God!  As  there  is  no  limit 
to  power  and  knowledge  there  can  be  no  end.  "The 
power  and  the  glory,  world  without  end":  have  those 
words  meant  nothing  to  you? 

BURGE  [pulling  out  an  old  envelope^  I  should  like  to 
make  a  note  of  that.      [He  does  so] . 

CONRAD.    There  will  always  be  something  to  live  for, 

BURGE  [pocketing  his  envelope  and  becoming  more  and 
more  business  like^  Right :  I  have  got  that.  Now  what 
about  sin?  What  about  the  Fall?  How  do  you  work 
them  in? 

CONRAD.  I  dont  work  in  the  Fall.  The  Fall  is  out- 
side Science.  But  I  daresay  Frank  can  work  it  in  for 
you. 

BURGE  [to  Franklyn']  I  wish  you  would,  you  know. 
It's  important.    Very  important. 

FRANKLYN.  Well,  cousidcr  it  this  way.  It  is  clear 
that  when  Adam  and  Eve  were  immortal  it  was  neces- 
sary that  they  should  make  the  earth  an  extremely  com- 
fortable place  to  live  in. 

BURGE.  True.  If  you  take  a  house  on  a  ninety-nine 
years  lease,  you  spend  a  good  deal  of  money  on  it.  If 
you  take  it  for  three  months  you  generally  have  a  bill 
for  dilapidations  to  pay  at  the  end  of  them. 


Part  II    Giospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  87 

FEANKLYN.  Just  SO.  Consequently,  when  Adam  had 
the  Garden  of  Eden  on  a  lease  for  ever,  he  took  care  to 
make  it  what  the  house  agents  call  a  highly  desirable 
country  residence.  But  the  moment  he  invented  death, 
and  became  a  tenant  for  life  only,  the  place  was  no 
longer  worth  the  trouble.  It  was  then  that  he  let  the 
thistles  grow.  Life  was  so  short  that  it  was  no  longer 
worth  his  while  to  do  anything  thoroughly  well. 

BURGE.  Do  you  think  that  is  enough  to  constitute 
what  an  average  elector  would  consider  a  Fall?  Is  it 
tragic  enough? 

FRANKLYN.  That  is  ouly  the  first  step  of  the  Fall. 
Adam  did  not  fall  down  that  step  only:  he  fell  down  a 
whole  flight.  For  instance,  before  he  invented  birth  he 
dared  not  have  lost  his  temper ;  for  if  he  had  killed  Eve 
he  would  have  been  lonely  and  barren  to  all  eternity. 
But  when  he  invented  birth,  and  anyone  who  was  killed 
could  be  replaced,  he  could  afford  to  let  himself  go.  He 
undoubtedly  invented  wife-beating;  and  that  was  an- 
other step  down.  One  of  his  sons  invented  meat-eating. 
The  other  was  horrified  at  the  innovation.  With  the 
ferocity  which  is  still  characteristic  of  bulls  and  other 
vegetarians,  he  slew  his  beefsteak-eating  brother,  and 
thus  invented  murder.  That  was  a  very  steep  step.  It 
was  so  exciting  that  all  the  others  began  to  kill  one  an- 
other for  sport,  and  thus  invented  war,  the  steepest  step 
of  all.  They  even  took  to  killing  animals  as  a  means 
of  killing  time,  and  then,  of  course,  ate  them  to  save  the 
long  and  difficult  labor  of  agriculture.  I  ask  you  to 
contemplate  our  fathers  as  they  came  crashing  down  all 
the  steps  of  this  Jacob's  ladder  that  reached  from  para- 
dise to  a  hell  on  earth  in  which  they  had  multiplied  the 
chances  of  death  from  violence,  accident,  and  disease 
until  they  could  hardly  count  on  three  score  and  ten 
years  of  life,  much  less  the  thousand  that  Adam  had 


88  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

been  ready  to  face !  With  that  picture  before  you,  will 
you  now  ask  me  where  was  the  Fall  ?  You  might  as  well 
stand  at  the  foot  of  Snowden  and  ask  me  where  is  the 
mountain.  The  very  children  see  it  so  plainly  that  they 
compress  its  history  into  a  two  line  epic: 

Old  Daddy  Long-  Legs  wouldnt  say  his  prayers : 
Take  him  by  the  hind  legs  and  throw  him  downstairs. 

LUBix  \_still  immovably  sceptical]  And  what  does 
Science  say  to  this  fairy  tale,  Doctor  Barnabas?  Surely 
Science  knows  nothing  of  Genesis,  or  of  Adam  and  Eve. 

CONRAD.  Then  it  isnt  Science :  thats  all.  Science  has 
to  account  for  everything;  and  everything  includes  the 
Bible. 

FRANKLYN.  The  Book  of  Genesis  is  a  part  of  nature 
like  any  other  part  of  nature.  The  fact  that  the  tale  of 
the  Garden  of  Eden  has  survived  and  held  the  imagina- 
tion of  men  spellbound  for  centuries,  whilst  hundreds 
of  much  more  plausible  and  amusing  stories  have  gone 
out  of  fashion  and  perished  like  last  year's  popular 
song,  is  a  scientific  fact ;  and  Science  is  bound  to  explain 
it.  You  tell  me  that  Science  knows  nothing  of  it.  Then 
Science  is  more  ignorant  than  the  children  at  any  village 
school. 

CONRAD.  Of  course  if  you  think  it  more  scientific  to 
say  that  what  we  are  discussing  is  not  Adam  and  Eve 
and  Eden,  but  the  phylogeny  of  the  blastoderm — 

SAVVY.     You  neednt  swear,  Nunk. 

CONRAD.  Shut  up,  you:  I  am  not  swearing.  [To 
Lubin'].  If  you  want  the  professional  humbug  of  re- 
writing the  Bible  in  words  of  four  syllables,  and  pre- 
tending it's  something  new,  I  can  humbug  you  to  your 
heart's  content.  I  can  call  Genesis  Phylogenesis.  Let 
the  Creator  say,  if  you  like,  "I  will  establish  an  anti- 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  89 

pathetic  symbiosis  between  thee  and  the  female,  and  be- 
tween thy  blastoderm  and  her  blastoderm."  Nobody 
will  understand  you ;  and  Savvy  will  think  you  are  swear- 
ing.   The  meaning  is  the  same. 

HASLAM.  Priceless.  But  it's  quite  simple.  The  one 
version  is  poetry :  the  other  is  science. 

FRANKLYN.  The  one  is  classroom  jargon :  the  other  is 
inspired  human  language. 

LUBiN  \_calmly  reminiscent^  One  of  the  few  modern 
authors  into  whom  I  have  occasionally  glanced  is  Rous- 
seau, who  was  a  sort  of  Deist  like  Burge — 

BURGE  [^interrupting  him  forcibly^  Lubin:  has  this 
stupendously  important  communication  which  Professor 
Barnabas  has  just  made  to  us:  a  communication  for 
which  I  shall  be  indebted  to  him  all  my  life  long:  has 
this,  I  say,  no  deeper  eiFect  on  you  than  to  set  you 
pulling  my  leg  by  trying  to  make  out  that  I  am  an 
infidel  ? 

LUBIN.  It's  very  interesting  and  amusing,  Burge; 
and  I  think  I  see  a  case  in  it.  I  think  I  could  undertake 
to  argue  it  in  an  ecclesiastical  court.  But  important  is 
hardly  a  word  I  should  attach  to  it. 

BURGE.  Good  God!  Here  is  this  professor:  a  man 
utterly  removed  from  the  turmoil  of  our  political  life: 
devoted  to  pure  learning  in  its  most  abstract  phases; 
and  I  solemnly  declare  he  is  the  greatest  politician,  the 
most  inspired  party  leader,  in  the  kingdom.  I  take  off 
my  hat  to  him.  I,  Joyce  Burge,  give  him  best.  And 
you  sit  there  purring  like  an  Angora  cat,  and  can  see 
nothing  in  it! 

CONRAD  [^openmg  his  eyes  widely']  Hallo !  What  have 
I  done  to  deserve  this  tribute  ? 

BURGE.  Done!  You  have  put  the  Liberal  Party 
into  power  for  the  next  thirty  years.  Doctor :  thats  what 
youve  done. 


90  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

coNEAD.    God  forbid ! 

BUEGE.  It's  all  up  with  the  Church  now.  Thanks  to 
you,  we  go  to  the  country  with  one  cry  and  one  only: 
Back  to  the  Bible!  Think  of  the  effect  on  the  Noncon- 
formist vote.  You  gather  that  in  with  one  hand;  and 
you  gather  in  the  modern  scientific  sceptical  profes- 
sional vote  with  the  other.  The  village  atheist  and  the 
first  cornet  in  the  local  Salvation  Army  band  meet  on 
the  village  green  and  shake  hands.  You  take  your 
school  children,  your  Bible  class  under  the  Cowper-Tem- 
ple  clause,  into  the  museum.  You  shew  the  kids  the  Pilt- 
down  skull;  and  you  say,  "Thats  Adam.  Thats  Eve's 
husband."  You  take  the  spectacled  science  student  from 
the  laboratory  in  Owens  College ;  and  when  he  asks  you 
for  a  truly  scientific  history  of  Evolution,  you  put  into 
his  hand  The  Pilgrim's  Progress.  You — [^Sairvy  and 
Haslam  explode  into  shrieks  of  merrvmeni'].  What  are 
you  two  laughing  at  ? 

SAVVY.    Oh,  go  on,  Mr  Burge.    Dont  stop. 

CONRAD.    Priceless ! 

feankjLYN.  Would  thirty  years  of  office  for  the  Lib- 
eral Party  seem  so  important  to  you,  Mr  Burge,  if  you 
had  another  two  and  a  half  centuries  to  live? 

BUEGE  [^decisively']  No.  You  will  have  to  drop  that 
part  of  it.    The  constituencies  wont  swallow  it. 

LUBiN  [serUyvMyl  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,  Burge.  I 
am  not  sure  that  it  may  not  prove  the  only  point  they 
will  swallow. 

BUEGE.  It  will  be  no  use  to  us  even  if  they  do.  It's 
not  a  party  point.  It's  as  good  for  the  other  side  as 
for  us. 

LUBiN.  Not  necessarily.  If  we  get  in  first  with  it, 
it  will  be  associated  in  the  public  mind  with  our  party. 
Suppose  I  put  it  forward  as  a  plank  in  our  program 
that  we  advocate  the  extension  of  human  life  to  three 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  91 

hundred  years!  Dunreen,  as  leader  of  the  opposite 
party,  will  be  bound  to  oppose  me :  to  denounce  me  as  a 
visionary  and  so  forth.  By  doing  so  he  will  place  him- 
self in  the  position  of  wanting  to  rob  the  people  of  two 
hundred  and  thirty  years  of  their  natural  life.  The 
Unionists  will  becbme  the  party  of  Premature  Death; 
and  we  shall  become  the  Longevity  party. 

BURGE  [shakeri]  You  really  think  the  electorate  would 
swallow  it? 

LUBiN.  My  dear  Burge:  is  there  anything  the  elec- 
torate will  not  swallow  if  it  is  judiciously  put  to  them? 
But  we  must  make  sure  of  our  ground.  We  must  have 
the  support  of  the  men  of  science.  Is  there  serious 
agreement  among  them,  Doctor,  as  to  the  possibility  of 
such  an  evolution  as  you  have  described  ? 

CONRAD.  Yes.  Ever  since  the  reaction  against  Dar- 
win set  in  at  the  beginning  of  the  present  century,  all 
scientific  opinion  worth  counting  has  been  converging 
rapidly  upon  Creative  Evolution. 

FRANKLYN.  Poetry  has  been  converging  on  it:  phil- 
osophy has  been  converging  on  it :  religion  has  been  con- 
verging on  it.  It  is  going  to  be  the  religion  of  the  twen- 
tieth century :  a  religion  that  has  its  intellectual  roots  in 
philosophy  and  science  just  as  medieval  Christianity 
had  its  intellectual  roots  in  Aristotle. 

LUBIN.  But  surely  any  change  would  be  so  extremely 
gradual  that — 

CONRAD.  Dont  deceive  yourself.  It's  only  the  politi- 
cians who  improve  the  world  so  gradually  that  nobody 
can  see  the  improvement.  The  notion  that  Nature  does 
not  proceed  by  jumps  is  only  one  of  the  budget  of 
plausible  lies  that  we  call  classical  education.  Nature 
always  proceeds  by  jumps.  She  may  spend  twenty  thou- 
sand years  making  up  her  mind  to  jump;  but  when  she 


92  Gk)spel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

makes  it  up  at  last,  the  jump  is  big  enough  to  take  us 
into  a  new  age. 

LUBiN  limpressed^  Fancy  my  being  leader  of  the 
party  for  the  next  three  hundred  years ! 

BURGE.    What!  !  ! 

LUBLN.  Perhaps  hard  on  some  of  the  younger  men.  I 
think  in  fairness  I  shall  have  to  step  aside  to  make  room 
after  another  century  or  so :  that  is,  if  Mimi  can  be  per- 
suaded to  give  up  Downing  Street. 

BURGE.  This  is  too  much.  Your  collossal  conceit 
blinds  you  to  the  most  obvious  necessity  of  the  political 
situation. 

LUBiN.  You  mean  my  retirement.  I  reaUy  cannot  see 
that  it  is  a  necessity.  I  could  not  see  it  when  I  was  al- 
most an  old  man — or  at  least  an  elderly  one.  Now  that 
it  appears  that  I  am  a  young  man,  the  case  for  it  breaks 
down  completely.  [To  Conrad],  May  I  ask  are  there 
any  alternative  theories?  Is  there  a  scientific  Opposi- 
tion.? 

CK)NRAD.  Well,  some  authorities  hold  that  the  human 
race  is  a  failure,  and  that  a  new  form  of  life,  better 
adapted  to  high  civilization,  will  supersede  us  as  we  have 
superseded  the  ape  and  the  elephant. 

BUEGE.    The  superman :  eh .? 

CONRAD.    No.  Some  being  quite  different  from  us, 

I.UBIN.    Is  that  altogether  desirable.? 

FRANKLYN.  I  fear  so.  However  that  may  be,  we  may 
be  quite  sure  of  one  thing.  We  shall  not  be  let  alone. 
The  force  behind  evolution,  call  it  what  you  will,  is  de- 
termined to  solve  the  problem  of  civilization;  and  if  it 
cannot  do  it  through  us,  it  will  produce  some  more 
capable  agents.  Man  is  not  God's  last  word:  God  can 
still  create.  If  you  cannot  do  His  work  He  will  produce 
some  being  who  can. 

SURGE   l_zgnth  zealous  reverence']   What  do  we  know 


Part  II    Gk)spel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  93 

about  Him,  Barnabas?  What  does  anyone  know  about 
Him? 

CONEAD.  We  know  this  about  Him  with  absolute  cer- 
tainty. The  power  my  brother  calls  God  proceeds  by  the 
method  of  Trial  and  Error ;  and  if  we  turn  out  to  be  one 
of  the  errors,  we  shall  go  the  way  of  the  mastodon  and 
the  megatherium  and  all  the  other  scrapped  experi- 
ments. 

LUBiN  [rising  and  beginning  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
room  with  his  considering  cap  on^  I  admit  that  I  am  imr- 
pressed,  gentlemen.  I  will  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  your 
theory  is  likely  to  prove  more  interesting  than  ever 
Welsh  Disestablishment  was.  But  as  a  practical  politi- 
cian— ^hm!    Eh,  Burge? 

CONRAD.  We  are  not  practical  politicians.  We  are 
out  to  get  something  done.  Practical  politicians  are 
people  who  have  mastered  the  art  of  using  parliament  to 
prevent  anything  being  done. 

FRANKLYN.  When  we  get  matured  statesmen  and  citi- 
zens— 

LUBIN  [^stopping  short^  Citizens !  Oh !  Are  the  citi- 
zens to  live  three  hundred  years  as  well  as  the  states- 
men ? 

coKRAD.    Of  course. 

liUBiN.  I  confess  that  had  not  occurred  to  me,  [^He 
sits  down  abruptly,  evidently  very  unfavorably  affected 
by  this  new  light  ^. 

Savvy  and  Haslam  look  at  one  another  with  unspeak- 
able feelings, 

BURGE.  Do  you  think  it  would  be  wise  to  go  quite  so 
far  at  first?  Surely  it  would  be  more  prudent  to  begin 
with  the  best  men. 

FRANKLYN.  You  need  not  be  anxious  about  that.  It 
will  begin  with  the  best  men. 


94  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

LUBiN.  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  You  see,  we 
must  put  this  into  a  practical  parliamentary  shape. 

BURGE.  We  shall  have  to  draft  a  Bill:  that  is  the 
long  and  the  short  of  it.  Until  you  have  your  Bill 
drafted  you  dont  know  what  you  are  really  doing :  that 
is  my  experience. 

LUBIN.  Quite  so.  My  idea  is  that  whilst  we  should 
interest  the  electorate  in  this  as  a  sort  of  religious  aspi- 
ration and  personal  hope,  using  it  at  the  same  time  to 
remove  their  prejudices  against  those  of  us  who  are 
getting  on  in  years,  it  would  be  in  the  last  degree  up- 
setting and  even  dangerous  to  enable  everyone  to  live 
longer  than  usual.  Take  the  mere  question  of  the  manu- 
facture of  the  specific,  whatever  it  may  be !  There  are 
forty  millions  of  people  in  the  country.  Let  me  assume 
for  the  sake  of  illustration  that  each  person  would  have 
to  consume,  say,  five  ounces  a  day  of  the  elixir.  That 
would  be — ^let  me  see — ^five  times  three  hundred  and 
sixty-five  is — um — twenty-five — thirty-two — eighteen — 
eighteen  hundred  and  twenty-five  ounces  a  year:  just 
two  ounces  over  the  hundredweight. 

BUEGE.  Two  million  tons  a  year,  in  round  numbers, 
of  stuff  that  everyone  would  clamor  for :  that  men  would 
trample  down  women  and  children  in  the  streets  to 
get  at.  You  couldnt  produce  it.  There  would  be  blue 
murder.  It's  out  of  the  question.  We  must  keep  the 
actual  secret  to  ourselves. 

CONRAD  [^staring  at  them]  The  actual  secret!  What 
on  earth  is  the  man  talking  about  ? 

BURGE.  The  stuff.  The  powder.  The  bottle.  The 
tabloid.    Whatever  it  is.    You  said  it  wasnt  lemons. 

CONRAD.  My  good  sir:  I  have  no  powder,  no  bottle, 
no  tabloid.  I  am  not  a  quack :  I  am  a  biologist.  This 
is  a  thing  thats  going  to  happen. 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  95 

LUBiN  [^completely  let  doxsm]  Going  to  happen !  Oh ! 
Is  that  all?      [He  looks  at  his  watcK], 

BUEGE,  Going  to  happen !  What  do  you  mean?  Do 
jou  mean  that  you  cant  make  it  happen  ? 

CONRAD.  No  more  than  I  could  have  made  you 
happen  ? 

FRANKLYN.  We  Can  put  it  into  men's  heads  that  there 
is  nothing  to  prevent  its  happening  but  their  own  will  to 
die  before  their  work  is  done,  and  their  own  ignorance  of 
the  splendid  work  there  is  for  them  to  do. 

CONRAD.  Spread  that  knowledge  and  that  convic- 
tion; and  as  surely  as  the  sun  will  rise  tomorrow,  the 
thing  will  happen. 

FRANKLYN.  We  dont  know  where  or  when  or  to  whom 
it  wiU  happen.  It  may  happen  first  to  someone  in  this 
room. 

HASLAM.     It  would  happen  to  me:  thats  jolly  sure. 

CONRAD.  It  might  happen  to  anyone.  It  might  hap- 
pen to  the  parlormaid.    How  do  we  know? 

SAVVY.     The  parlormaid  I    Oh,  thats  nonsense,  Nunk. 

LUBIN  [once  more  quite  comfortable^  I  think  Miss 
Savvy  has  delivered  the  final  verdict. 

BURGE.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  nothing 
more  practical  to  offer  than  the  mere  wish  to  live  longer? 
Why,  if  people  could  live  by  merely  wishing  to,  we 
should  all  be  living  for  ever  already !  Everybody  would 
like  to  live  for  ever.    Why  dont  they? 

CONRAD.  Pshaw!  Everybody  would  like  to  have  a 
million  of  money.  Why  havnt  they?  Because  the  men 
who  would  like  to  be  millionaires  wont  save  sixpence  even 
with  the  chance  of  starvation  staring  them  in  the  face. 
The  men  who  want  to  live  for  ever  wont  cut  off  a  glass 
of  beer  or  a  pipe  of  tobacco,  though  they  believe  the 
teetotallers  and  non-smokers  live  longer.     That  sort  of 


96  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

liking  is  not  willing.  See  what  they  do  when  they  know 
they  must. 

FRANKLYN.  Do  not  mistake  mere  idle  fancies  for  the 
tremendous  miracle-working  force  of  Will  nerved  to 
creation  by  a  conviction  of  Necessity.  I  tell  you  men 
/apable  of  such  willing,  and  realizing  its  necessity,  will 
do  it  reluctantly,  under  inner  compulsion,  as  all  great 
efforts  are  made.  They  will  hide  what  they  are  doing 
from  themselves:  they  will  take  care  not  to  know  what 
they  are  doing.  They  will  live  three  hundred  years,  not 
because  they  would  like  to,  but  because  the  soul  deep 
down  in  them  will  know  that  they  must,  if  the  world  is 
to  be  saved. 

liUBiN  [turning  to  Franhlyn  and  patting  him  almost 
'paternally~\  Well,  my  dear  Barnabas,  for  the  last  thirty 
years  the  post  has  brought  me  at  least  once  a  week  a 
plan  from  some  crank  or  other  for  the  establishment  of 
the  millennium,  I  think  you  are  the  maddest  of  all  the 
cranks ;  but  you  are  much  the  most  interesting.  I  am 
conscious  of  a  very  curious  mixture  of  relief  and  disap- 
pointment in  finding  that  your  plan  is  all  moonshine,  and 
that  you  have  nothing  practical  to  offer  us.  But  what 
a  pity !  It  is  such  a  fascinating  idea !  I  think  you  are 
too  hard  on  us  practical  men ;  but  there  are  men  in  every 
Government,  even  on  the  Front  Bench,  who  deserve  all 
you  say.  And  now,  before  dropping  the  subject,  may  I 
put  just  one  question  to  you?  An  idle  question,  since 
nothing  can  come  of  it ;  but  still — 

FRANKLYN.    Ask  vour  question. 

LUBiN.  why  do  you  fix  three  hundred  years  as  the 
exact  figure? 

FRANKLYN.  Because  we  must  fix  some  figure.  Less 
would  not  be  enough ;  and  more  would  be  more  than  we 
dare  as  yet  face. 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  97 

liUBiN.  Pooh!  I  am  quite  prepared  to  face  three 
thousand  not  to  say  three  million. 

CONRAD.  Yes.  because  you  dont  believe  you  will  be 
called  on  to  make  good  your  word. 

FRANKLYN  Igeutlt/']  Also,  perhaps,  because  you  have 
never  been  troubled  much  by  visions  of  the  future. 

BURGE  [with  intense  conviction^  The  future  does  not 
exist  for  Henry  Hopkins  Lubin. 

LUBiN.  If  by  the  future  you  mean  the  millenial  delu- 
sions which  you  use  as  a  bunch  of  carrots  to  lure  the 
uneducated  British  donkey  to  the  polling  booth  to  vote 
for  you,  it  certainly  does  not. 

BURGE.  I  can  see  the  future  not  only  because,  if  I 
may  say  so  in  all  humility,  I  have  been  gifted  with  a  cer- 
tain power  of  spiritual  vision,  but  because  I  have  prac- 
tised as  a  solicitor.  A  solicitor  has  to  advise  families. 
He  has  to  think  of  the  future  and  know  the  past.  His 
office  is  the  real  modern  confessional.  Among  other 
things  he  has  to  make  people's  wills  for  them.  He  has 
to  shew  them  how  to  provide  for  their  daughters  after 
their  deaths.  Has  it  occurred  to  you,  Lubin,  that  if 
you  live  three  hundred  years,  your  daughters  will  have 
to  wait  a  devilish  long  time  for  their  money? 

FRANKLYN.  The  money  may  not  wait  for  them.  Few 
investments  flourish  for  three  hundred  years. 

SAVVY.  And  what  about  before  your  death?  Sup- 
pose they  didn't  get  married !  Imagine  a  girl  living  at 
home  with  her  mother  and  on  her  father  for  three  hun- 
dred years!  Theyd  murder  her  if  she  didnt  murder 
them  first. 

LUBIN.  By  the  way,  Barnabas,  is  your  daughter  to 
keep  her  good  looks  all  the  time  ? 

FRANKLYN.  Will  it  matter?  Can  you  conceive  the 
most  hardened  flirt  going  on  flirting  for  three  centu- 


98  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

ries?  At  the  end  of  half  the  time  we  shall  hardly  notice 
whether  it  is  a  woman  or  a  man  we  are  speaking  to. 

LUBiN  [not  quite  relishing  this  ascetic  prospect^  Hm ! 
[He  rises^ .  Ah,  well :  you  must  come  and  tell  my  wife 
and  my  young  people  all  about  it;  and  you  will  bring 
your  daughter  with  you,  of  course.  [He  shakes  hands 
with  Savvy'],  Good-bye.  [He  shakes  hands  with 
Franklyn],  Good-bye,  Doctor.  [He  shakes  hands  with 
Conrad],  Come  on  Burge;  you  must  really  tell  me 
what  line  you  are  going  to  take  about  the  Church  at  the 
election  ? 

BURGE.  Havnt  you  heard?  Havnt  you  taken  in  the 
revelation  that  has  been  vouchsafed  to  us?  The  line  I 
am  going  to  take  is  Back  to  Methuselah. 

LUBIN  [decisively]  Dont  be  ridiculous,  Burge.  You 
dont  suppose,  do  you,  that  our  friends  here  are  in 
earnest,  or  that  our  very  pleasant  conversation  has  had 
anything  to  do  with  practical  politics!  They  have  just 
been  puUing  our  legs  very  wittily.  Come  along.  [He 
goes  outy  Franklyn  politely  going  with  him,  hut  shak- 
ing his  head  in  mute  protest], 

BURGE  [shaking  Conrad^s  hand]  It's  beyond  the  old 
man,  Doctor.  No  spiritual  side  to  him:  only  a  sort  of 
classical  side  that  goes  down  with  his  own  set.  Besides, 
he's  done,  gone,  past,  burnt  out,  burst  up ;  thinks  he  is 
our  leader  and  is  only  our  rag  and  bottle  department. 
But  you  may  depend  on  me.  I  will  work  this  stunt  of 
yours  in.  I  see  its  value.  [He  begins  nnoving  towards 
the  door  with  Conrad] .  Of  course  I  cant  put  it  exactly 
in  your  way ;  but  you  are  quite  right  about  our  needing 
something  fresh ;  and  I  believe  an  election  can  be  fought 
on  the  death  rate  and  on  Adam  and  Eve  as  scientific 
facts.  It  will  take  the  Opposition  right  out  of  its  depth. 
And  if  we  win  there  will  be  an  O.M.  for  somebody  when 
tne  first  honors  list  comes  round.     [By  this  time  he  has 


Part  II    Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas  99 

talked  himself  out  of  the  room  and  out  of  earshot.  Con- 
rad  accompanying  him^ . 

Saxrvy  and  Haslam,  left  alone,  seize  each  other  in  an 
ecstasy  of  amusement,  and  jazz  to  the  settee,  where  they 
sit  down  again  side  by  side, 

HASLAM  [caressing  her']  Darling!  What  a  priceless 
humbug  old  Lubin  is ! 

SAVVY.  Oh,  sweet  old  thing !  I  love  him.  Surge  is  a 
flaming  fraud  if  you  like. 

HASLAM.  Did  you  notice  one  thing?  It  struck  me  as 
rather  curious. 

SAVVY.    What  ? 

HASLAM.  Lubin  and  your  father  have  both  survived 
the  war.    But  their  sons  were  killed  in  it. 

SAVVY  [sohered'l  Yes.    Jim's  death  killed  mother. 

HASLAM.    And  they  never  said  a  word  about  it ! 

SAVVY.  Well,  why  should  they?  The  subject  didnt 
come  up.  /  forgot  about  it  too;  and  I  was  very  fond 
of  Jim. 

HASLAM.  I  didnt  forget  it,  because  I'm  of  military 
age;  and  if  I  hadnt  been  a  parson  I'd  have  had  to  ge 
out  and  be  killed  too.  To  me  the  awful  thing  about  their 
political  incompetence  was  that  they  had  to  kill  their 
own  sons.  It  was  the  war  casualty  lists  and  the  starva- 
tion afterwards  that  finished  me  up  with  politics  and  the 
Church  and  everything  else  except  you. 

SAVVY.  Oh,  I  was  just  as  bad  as  any  of  them.  I  sold 
flags  in  the  streets  in  my  best  clothes ;  and — hsh !  [She 
jumps  up  and  pretends  to  he  looking  for  a  hook  on  the 
shelves  hehind  the  settee], 

Franklyn  a/nd  Conrad  return,  looking  weary  and  glum, 

CONRAD.  Well,  thats  how  the  gospel  of  the  brothers 
Barnabas  is  going  to  be  received!  [He  drops  into 
Surge's  chair]. 


100        Giospel  of  the  Brothers  Barnabas    Part  II 

FEANKLYN  \_going  back  to  his  seat  at  the  tabled  It's 
no  use.    Were  you  convinced,  Mr  Haslam? 

HASLAM.  About  our  being  able  to  live  three  hundred 
years?    Frankly,  no. 

CONRAD  [to  Sawyl  Nor  you,  I  suppose? 

SAVVY.  Oh,  I  dont  know.  I  thought  I  was  for  a 
moment.  I  can  believe,  in  a  sort  of  way,  that  people 
might  live  for  three  hundred  years.  But  when  you  came 
down  to  tin  tacks,  and  said  that  the  parlormaid  might, 
then  I  saw  how  absurd  it  was. 

FEANKLYN.  Just  SO.  We  had  better  hold  our  tongues 
about  it.  Con.  We  should  only  be  laughed  at,  and 
lose  the  little  credit  we  earned  on  false  pretences  in  the 
days  of  our  ignorance. 

CONRAD.  I  daresay.  But  Creative  Evolution  doesnt 
stop  while  people  are  laughing.  Laughing  may  even 
lubricate  its  job. 

SAVVY.     What  does  that  mean? 

CONRAD.  It  means  that  the  first  man  to  live  three 
hundred  years  maynt  have  the  slightest  notion  that  he  is 
going  to  do  it,  and  may  be  the  loudest  laugher  of  the 
lot. 

SAVVY.    Or  the  first  woman? 

CONRAD  lassentingl  Or  the  first  woman. 

HASLAM.     Well,  it  wont  be  one  of  us,  anyhow. 

FRANKLYN.     How  do  you  know? 

This  is  unanswerable.  None  of  them  have  anything 
more  to  say. 


PART  III 

THE  THING  HAPPENS 

XXXIV 


THE  THING  HAPPENS 

A  summer  afternoon  m  the  year  2170  a.d.  The  offi' 
cial  parlor  of  the  President  of  the  British  Islands,  A 
hoard  table,  long  enough  for  three  chairs  at  each  side 
besides  the  presidential  chair  at  the  head  and  an  ordinary 
chair  at  the  foot,  occupies  the  breadth  of  the  room.  On 
the  table,  opposite  every  chair,  a  small  switchboard  with 
a  dial.  There  is  no  fireplace.  The  end  wall  is  a  silvery 
screen  nearly  as  large  as  a  pair  of  folding  doors.  The 
door  is  on  your  left  as  you  face  the  screen;  and  there  is 
a  row  of  thick  pegs,  padded  and  covered  with  velvet, 
beside  it, 

A  stoutish  middle-aged  man,  good-looking  and  breez- 
ily general,  dressed  in  a  silk  smock,  stockings,  hand- 
somely ornamented  sandals,  and  a  gold  fillet  round  his 
brows,  comes  in.  He  is  like  Joyce  Burge,  yet  also  like 
Lubin,  as  if  Nature  had  made  a  composite  photograph 
of  the  two  men.  He  takes  off  the  fUlet  and  hangs  it  on 
a  peg;  then  sits  down  in  the  presidential  chair  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  which  is  at  the  end  farthest  from  the 
door.  He  puts  a  peg  into  his  switchboard;  turns  the 
pointer  on  the  dial;  puts  another  peg  in;  and  presses  a 
button.  Immediately  the  silvery  screen  vanishes;  and 
in  its  place  appears,  in  reverse  from  right  to  left,  cm- 
other  office  similarly  furnished,  with  a  thin,  una/nuable 
man  similarly  dressed,  but  in  duller  colors,  turning  over 
some  documents  at  the  table.    His  gold  fillet  is  ho/nging 

103 


104  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

up  on  a  similar  peg  beside  the  door.  He  is  rather  like 
Conrad  Barnabas,  but  younger,  and  much  more  common- 
place, 

BUEGE-LUBiN.    Hallo,  Bamabas ! 

BAENABAs  [without  looMng  round^  What  number? 

BUEGE-LUBIN.  Fivc  double  X  three  two  games.  Burge- 
Lubin. 

Barnabas  puts  a  plug  in  number  five;  turns  his 
pointer  to  double  x;  puts  another  plug  in  32;  presses  a 
button  and  looks  round  at  Burge-Lubin,  who  is  now 
visible  to  him  as  well  as  audible. 

BAENABAS  lcurtly~\  Oh!    That  you,  President? 

BUEGE-LUBIN.  Yes.  They  told  me  you  wanted  me 
to  ring  you  up.    Anything  wrong? 

BAENABAS  [liarsh  and  querulous^  I  wish  to  make  a 
protest. 

BUEGE-LUBIN  [good-humored  and  mocking']  What! 
Another  protest !    Whats  wrong  now? 

BAENABAS.  If  you  only  knew  all  the  protests  I 
havent  made,  you  would  be  surprised  at  my  patience. 
It  is  you  who  are  always  treating  me  with  the  grossest 
want  of  consideration. 

BUEGE-LUBIN.     What  have  I  doue  now  ? 

BAENABAS.  You  have  put  me  down  to  go  to  the 
Record  Office  to-day  to  receive  that  American  fellow,  and 
do  the  honors  of  a  ridiculous  cinema  show.  That  is  not 
the  business  of  the  Accountant  General:  it  is  the  busi- 
ness of  the  President.  It  is  an  outrageous  waste  of  my 
time,  and  an  unjustifiable  shirking  of  your  duty  at  my 
expense.    I  refuse  to  go.    You  must  go, 

BUEGE-LUBIN.  My  doar  boy,  nothing  would  give  me 
greater  pleasure  than  to  take  the  job  off  your  hands — 

BAENABAS.  Then  do  it.  Thats  all  I  want  \_he  is 
about  to  switch  off^. 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  105 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Doiit  switch  ofF.  Listen.  This 
American  has  invented  a  method  of  breathing  under 
water. 

BAKNABAS.  What  do  I  care.?  I  dont  want  to  breathe 
under  water. 

BUEGE-LUBiN.  You  may,  my  dear  Barnabas,  at  any 
time.  You  know  you  never  look  where  you  are  going 
when  you  are  immersed  in  your  calculations.  Some  day 
you  will  walk  into  the  Serpentine.  This  man's  invention 
may  save  your  life. 

BARNABAS  [angrtlT^]  Will  you  tell  me  what  that  has  to 
do  with  your  putting  your  ceremonial  duties  on  to  my 
shoulders.?  I  will  not  be  trifled  ^he  vanishes  and  is  re- 
placed hy  the  blank  screen^ — 

BUEGE-LUBiN  [indignantly  holding  down  his  button'] 
Dont  cut  us  off,  please :  we  have  not  finished.  I  am  the 
President,  speaking  to  the  Accountant  General.  What 
are  you  dreaming  of? 

A  woman'  voice.  Sorry.  [The  screen  shores  Bar- 
nabas as  before] . 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Siuce  you  take  it  that  way,  I  will  go 
in  your  place.  It's  a  pity,  because,  you  see,  this  Ameri- 
can thinks  you  are  the  greatest  living  authority  on  the 
duration  of  human  life ;  and — 

BARNABAS  [interrupting]  The  American  thinks! 
What  do  you  mean  ?  I  am  the  greatest  living  authority 
on  the  duration  of  human  life.     Who  dares  dispute  it? 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Nobody,  dear  lad,  nobody.  Dont  fly 
out  at  me.  It  is  evident  that  you  have  not  read  the 
American's  book. 

BARNABAS.  Dout  tell  me  that  you  have,  or  that  you 
have  read  any  book  except  a  novel  for  the  last  twenty 
years ;  for  I  wont  believe  you. 

BURGE-LUBIN.     Quite  right,  dear  old  fellow:  I  havnt 


106  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

read  it.    But  I  have  read  what  The  Times  Literary  Sup- 
plement says  ahout  it. 

BARNABAS.  I  dont  care  two  straws  what  it  says  about 
it.    Does  it  say  anything  about  me? 

BURGE-LUBIN.       YeS. 

BARNABAS.     Ohidoesit?    What? 

BURGE-LUBiN.  It  points  out  that  an  extraordinary 
number  of  first-rate  persons  like  you  and  me  have  died 
by  drowning  during  the  last  two  centuries,  and  that 
when  this  invention  of  breathing  under  water  takes 
effect,  your  estimate  of  the  average  duration  of  human 
life  will  be  upset. 

BARNABAS  [alarTned]  Upset  my  estimate!  Gracious 
Heavens!  Does  the  fool  realize  what  that  means?  Do 
you  realize  what  that  means  ? 

BURGE-LUBIN.  I  supposc  It  means  that  we  shall  have 
to  amend  the  Act. 

BARNABAS.     Amend  my  Act !    Monstrous ! 

BURGE-LUBIN.  But  we  must.  We  cant  ask  people  to 
go  on  working  until  they  are  forty-three  unless  our 
figures  are  unchallengable.  You  know  what  a  row  there 
was  over  those  last  three  years,  and  how  nearly  the  too- 
old-at-forty  people  won. 

BARNABAS.  They  would  have  made  the  British 
Islands  bankrupt  if  theyd  won.  But  you  dont  care  for 
that :  you  care  for  nothing  but  being  popular. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Oh,  wcll !  I  shouldnt  worry  if  I  were 
you ;  for  most  people  complain  that  there  is  not  enough 
work  for  them,  and  would  be  only  too  glad  to  stick  on 
instead  of  retiring  at  forty-three,  if  only  they  were 
asked  as  a  favor  instead  of  having  to. 

BARNABAS.  Thank  you :  I  need  no  consolation.  [He 
rises  determinedly  and  'puts  on  his  f%Llet~\. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Are  you  off?  Where  are  you  going 
to? 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  107 

BARNABAS.  To  that  Cinema  tomfoolery,  of  course.  I 
shall  put  this  American  imposter  in  his  place.  \_He  goes 
out], 

BUEGE-LUBiN  [calling  after  him']  God  bless  you,  dear 
old  chap!  [With  a  chuckle,  he  switches  off;  and  the 
screen  becomes  blank.  He  presses  a  button  and  holds  it 
down  while  he  calls]  Hallo ! 

A  woman's  voice.     Hallo ! 

BURGE-LUBiN  [formality]  The  President  respectfully 
solicits  the  privilege  of  an  interview  with  the  Chief 
Secretary,  and  holds  himself  entirely  at  his  honor's 
august  disposal. 

A  CHINESE  VOICE.     He  is  coming. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Oh!  That  you,  Conf ucius ?  So  good 
of  you.    Come  along  \_he  releases  the  button] , 

A  man  in  a  yellow  gown,  presenting  the  general  ap- 
pearance of  a  Chinese  sage,  enters. 

BURGE-LUBIN  \_jocularly]  Well,  illustrious  Sage-&- 
Onions,  how  are  your  poor  sore  feet  ? 

CONFUCIUS  [gravely]  I  thank  you  for  your  kind 
enquiries.    I  am  well. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Thats  right.  Sit  down  and  make 
yourself  comfortable.    Any  business  for  me  today? 

CONFUCIUS  [sitting  down  on  the  first  chair  round  the 
corner  of  the  table  to  the  President's  right]  None. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Have  you  heard  the  result  of  the  bye- 
election  ? 

CONFUCIUS.     A  walk-over.     Only  one  candidate. 

BURGE-LUBIN.     Any  good? 

CONFUCIUS.  He  was  released  from  the  County 
Lunatic  Asylum  a  fortnight  ago.  Not  mad  enough  for 
the  lethal  chamber:  not  sane  enough  for  any  place  but 
the  division  lobby.    A  very  popular  speaker. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  I  wish  the  people  would  take  a  serious 
interest  in  politics. 


108  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

CONFUCIUS.  I  do  not  agree.  The  Englishman  is  not 
fitted  by  nature  to  understand  politics.  Ever  since  the 
public  services  have  been  manned  by  Chinese,  the  country 
has  been  well  and  honestly  governed.  What  more  is 
needed? 

BURGE-LUBiN.  What  I  cant  make  out  is  that  China 
is  one  of  the  worst  governed  countries  on  earth. 

CONFUCIUS.  No.  It  was  badly  governed  twenty 
years  ago ;  but  since  we  forbade  any  Chinaman  to  take 
gart  in  our  public  services,  and  imported  natives  of 
Scotland  for  that  purpose,  we  have  done  well.  Your 
information  here  is  always  twenty  years  out  of  date. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  People  dont  seem  to  be  able  to  govern 
themselves.    I  cant  understand  it.    Why  should  it  be  so  ? 

CONFUCIUS.  Justice  is  impartiality.  Only  strangers 
are  impartial. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  It  cuds  in  the  public  services  being  so 
good  that  the  Government  has  nothing  to  do  but  think. 

CONFUCIUS.  Were  it  otherwise,  the  Government 
would  have  too  much  to  do  to  think. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Is  that  any  excuse  for  the  English 
people  electing  a  parliament  of  lunatics  ? 

CONFUCIUS.  The  English  people  always  did  elect 
parliaments  of  lunatics.  What  does  it  matter  if  your 
permanent  officials  are  honest  and  competent  .»* 

BURGE-LUBIN.  You  do  uot  know  the  history  of  this 
country.  What  would  my  ancestors  have  said  to  the 
menagerie  of  degenerates  that  is  still  called  the  House 
of  Commons?  Confucius:  you  will  not  believe  me;  and 
I  do  not  blame  you  for  it ;  but  England  once  saved  the 
liberties  of  the  world  by  inventing  parliamentary  gov- 
ernment, which  was  her  peculiar  and  supreme  glory. 

CONFUCIUS.  I  know  the  history  of  your  country  per- 
fectly well.    It  proves  the  exact  contrary. 

BURGE-LUBIN.     How  do  you  make  that  out? 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  109 

cuNFUcius.  The  only  power  your  parliament  ever 
had  was  the  power  of  withholding  supplies  from  the 
king. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Precisely.  That  great  Englishman 
Simon  de  Montfort — 

CONFUCIUS.  He  was  not  an  Englishman:  he  was  a 
Frenchman.     He  imported  parliaments  from  France. 

BUEGE-LUBiN  [surpHsed^  You  dont  say  so! 

CONFUCIUS.  The  king  and  his  loyal  subjects  killed 
Simon  for  forcing  his  French  parliament  on  them.  The 
first  thing  British  parliaments  always  did  was  to  grant 
supplies  to  the  king  for  life  with  enthusiastic  expressions 
of  loyalty,  lest  they  should  have  any  real  power,  and  be 
expected  to  do  something. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Look  here,  Confucius :  you  know  more 
history  than  I  do,  of  course;  but  democracy — 

CONFUCIUS.  An  institution  peculiar  to  China.  And 
it  was  never  really  a  success  there. 

BURGE-LUBIN.     But  the  Habeas  Corpus  Act! 

CONFUCIUS.  The  English  always  suspended  it  when 
it  threatened  to  be  of  the  slightest  use. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Well,  trial  by  jury:  you  cant  deny 
that  we  established  that? 

CONFUCIUS.  All  cases  that  were  dangerous  to  the 
governing  classes  were  tried  in  the  Star  Chamber  or  by 
Court  Martial,  except  when  the  prisoner  was  not  tried 
at  all,  but  executed  after  calling  him  names  enough  to 
make  him  unpopular. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Oh,  bother !  You  may  be  right  in 
these  little  details ;  but  in  the  large  we  have  managed  to 
hold  our  own  as  a  great  race.  Well,  people  who  could 
do  nothing  couldnt  have  done  that,  you  know. 

CONFUCIUS.  I  did  not  say  you  could  do  nothing. 
You  could  fight.  You  could  eat.  You  could  drink. 
Until  the  twentieth  century  you  could  produce  children. 


110  The  Thing  Happens  Partin 

You  could  play  games.    You  could  work  when  you  were 
forced  to.    But  you  could  not  govern  yourselves. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Then  how  did  we  get  our  reputation 
as  the  pioneers  of  liberty  ? 

cuNFucius.  By  your  steadfast  refusal  to  be  gov- 
erned at  all.  A  horse  that  kicks  everyone  who  tries  to 
harness  and  guide  him  may  be  a  pioneer  of  liberty ;  but 
he  is  not  a  pioneer  of  government.  In  China  he  would 
be  shot. 

BUEGE-LUBiN.     Stuff !     Do  you  imply  that  the  ad- 
ministration of  which  I  am  president  is  no  Government? 
CONFUCIUS.     I  do.     /  am  the  Government. 
BURGE-LUBiN.     You !     You !  !     You  fat  yellow  lump 
of  conceit ! 

CONFUCIUS.  Only  an  Englishman  could  be  so 
ignorant  of  the  nature  of  government  as  to  suppose  that 
a  capable  statesman  cannot  be  fat,  yellow,  and  con- 
ceited. Many  Englishmen  are  slim,  red-nosed,  and 
modest.  Put  them  in  my  place,  and  within  a  year  you 
will  be  back  in  the  anarchy  and  chaos  of  the  nineteenth 
and  twentieth  centuries. 

BUEGE-LUBiN.  Oh,  if  you  go  back  to  the  dark  ages, 
I  have  nothing  more  to  say.  But  we  did  not  perish. 
We  extricated  ourselves  from  that  chaos.  We  are  now 
the  best  governed  country  in  the  world.  How  did  we 
manage  that  if  we  are  such  fools  as  you  pretend? 

CONFUCIUS.  You  did  not  do  it  until  the  slaughter 
and  ruin  produced  by  your  anarchy  forced  you  at  last 
to  recognize  two  inexorable  facts.  First,  that  govern- 
ment is  absolutely  necessary  to  civilization,  and  that  you 
could  not  maintain  civilization  by  merely  doing  down 
your  neighbor,  as  you  called  it,  and  cutting  off  the  head 
of  your  king  whenever  he  happened  to  be  a  logical  Scot 
and  tried  to  take  his  position  seriously.  Second,  that 
government  is  an  art  of  which  you  are  congenitally  in- 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  111 

capable.  Accordingly,  you  imported  educated  negresses 
and  Chinese  to  govern  you.  Since  then  you  have  done 
very  well. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  So  have  you,  you  old  humbug.  All 
the  same,  I  dont  know  how  you  stand  the  work  you  do. 
You  seem  to  me  positively  to  like  public  business.  Why 
wont  you  let  me  take  you  down  to  the  coast  some  week- 
end and  teach  you  marine  golf? 

CONFUCIUS.  It  does  not  interest  me.  I  am  not  a 
barbarian. 

BURGE-LUBiN.     You  mean  that  I  am  ? 

CONFUCIUS.     That  is  evident. 

BURGE-LUBIN.      HoW? 

CONFUCIUS.  People  like  you.  They  like  cheerful 
good-natured  barbarians.  They  have  elected  you  Presi- 
dent five  times  in  succession.  They  will  elect  you  five 
times  more.  /  like  you.  You  are  better  company  than 
a  dog  or  a  horse  because  you  can  speak. 

BUEGE-iiUBiN.  Am  I  a  barbarian  because  you  like 
me? 

CONFUCIUS.  Surely.  Nobody  likes  me:  I  am  held  in 
awe.  Capable  persons  are  never  liked.  I  am  not  like- 
able ;  but  I  am  indispensable. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Oh,  checr  up,  old  man ;  theres  nothing 
so  disagreeable  about  you  as  all  that.  I  dont  dislike 
you;  and  if  you  think  I'm  afraid  of  you,  you  jolly  well 
dont  know  Burge-Lubin :  thats  all. 

CONFUCIUS.  You  are  brave:  yes.  It  is  a  form  of 
stupidity. 

BURGE-iiUBiN.  You  may  not  be  brave;  one  doesnt 
expect  it  from  a  Chink.  But  you  have  the  devil's  own 
cheek. 

CONFUCIUS.  I  have  the  assured  certainty  of  the  man 
who  sees  and  knows.  Your  genial  bluster,  your  cheery 
self-confidence,  are  pleasant,  like  the  open  air.    But  they 


112  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

are  blind :  they  are  vain.  I  seem  to  see  a  great  dog  wag 
his  tail  and  bark  joyously.  But  if  he  leaves  my  heel  he 
is  lost. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Thank  you  for  a  handsome  compli- 
ment. I  have  a  big  dog;  and  he  is  the  best  fellow  I 
know.  If  you  knew  how  much  uglier  you  are  than  a 
chow,  you  wouldn't  start  those  comparisons,  though. 
[Rising]  Well,  if  you  have  nothing  for  me  to  do,  I  am 
going  to  leave  your  heel  for  the  rest  of  the  day  and 
enjoy  myself.  What  would  you  recommend  me  to  do 
with  myself.? 

CONFUCIUS.  Give  yourself  up  to  contemplation ;  and 
great  thoughts  will  come  to  you. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Will  thc}^ .?  If  you  think  I  am  going 
to  sit  here  on  a  fine  day  like  tliis  with  my  legs  crossed 
waiting  for  great  thoughts,  you  exaggerate  my  taste 
for  them.  I  prefer  marine  golf.  [Stopping  short]  Oh, 
by  the  way,  I  forgot  something.  I  have  a  word  or  two 
to  say  to  the  Minister  of  Health.  [He  goes  back  to  his 
chair] . 

CONFUCIUS.     Her  number  is — 

BURGE-LUBIN.       I  knOW  it. 

CONFUCIUS  [rising]  I  cannot  understand  her  attrac- 
tion for  you.  For  me  a  woman  who  is  not  yellow  does 
not  exist,  save  as  an  official.      [He  goes  out], 

Burge-Luhin  operates  the  .switchboard  as  before. 
The  screen  vanishes;  and  a  dainty  room  with  a  bed,  a 
wardrobe,  and  a  dressing-table  with  a  mirror  and  a 
switch  on  it,  appears.  Seated  at  it  a  handsome  negress 
is  trying  on  a  brilliant  head  scarf.  Her  dressing-gown 
is  thrown  back  from  her  shoulders  to  her  chair.  She  is 
in  corset,  knickers,  and  silk  stockings, 

BURGE-LUBIN  [horrified]  I  beg  your  pardon  a  thou- 
sand times —  [The  startled  negress  snatches  the  peg  out 
of  her  switchboard  and  vanishes] . 


V 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  113 

THE  Negress's  voice.     Who  it  is  ? 

BUEGE-LUBiN.  Me.  The  President.  Burge-Lubin. 
I  had  no  idea  jour  bedroom  switch  was  in.  I  beg  your 
pardon. 

The  negress  reappears.  She  has  pulled  the  dress- 
ing-gown perfunctorily  over  her  shoulders,  and  continues 
her  experiments  with  the  scarf,  not  at  all  put  out,  and 
rather  amused  hy  Burgees  prudery, 

THE  NEGRESS.  Stupid  of  me.  I  was  talking  to  an- 
other lady  this  morning;  and  I  left  the  peg  in. 

BURGE-LUBIN.    But  I  am  so  sorry. 

THE  NEGRESS  \^sunnily .'  still  busy  with  the  scarf\ 
Why  ?    It  was  my  fault. 

BURGE-LUBIN  [^embarrassed']  Well — er — er —  But  I 
suppose  you  were  used  to  it  in  Africa. 

THE  NEGRESS.  Your  delicacy  is  very  touching,  Mr 
President.  It  would  be  funny  if  it  were  not  so  un- 
pleasant, because,  like  all  white  delicacy,  it  is  in  the 
wrong  place.  How  do  you  think  this  suits  my  com- 
plexion ? 

BURGE-LUBIN.  How  cau  any  really  vivid  color  go 
wrong  with  a  black  satin  skin?  It  is  our  women's 
wretched  pale  faces  that  have  to  be  matched  and  lighted. 
Yours  is  always  right. 

THE  NEGRESS.  Ycs :  it  IS  a  pity  your  white  beauties 
•have  all  the  same  ashy  faces,  the  same  colorless  drab,  the 
same  age.  But  look  at  their  beautiful  noses  and  little 
lips !  They  are  physically  insipid :  they  have  no  beauty : 
you  cannot  love  them ;  but  how  elegant ! 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Cant  you  find  an  official  pretext  for 
coming  to  see  me  ?  Isnt  it  ridiculous  that  we  have  never 
met  ?  It's  so  tantalizing  to  see  you  and  talk  to  you,  and 
to  know  all  the  time  that  you  are  two  hundred  miles 
away,  and  that  I  cant  touch  you  ? 

THE  NEGRESS.     I  cauuot  livc  OH  the  East  Coast :  it  is 


114  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

hard  enough  to  keep  mj  blood  warm  here.  Besides,  my 
friend,  it  would  not  be  safe.  These  distant  flirtations 
are  very  charming;  and  they  teach  self-control. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Damn  self-control!  I  want  to  hold 
you  in  my  arms — to —  ^the  negress  snatches  out  the  peg 
from  the  switchboard  and  vanishes.  She  is  still  heard 
laughing'}.  Black  devil!  [He  snatches  out  his  peg 
furiously;  her  laugh  is  no  longer  heard}.  Oh,  these  sex 
episodes!    Why  can  I  not  resist  them?    Disgraceful! 

Confucius  returns, 

CONFUCIUS.  I  forgot.  There  is  something  for  you 
to  do  this  morning.  You  have  to  go  to  the  Record  Office 
to  receive  the  American  barbarian. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Conf ucius :  once  for  all,  I  object  to 
this  Chinese  habit  of  describing  white  men  as  barbarians. 

CONFUCIUS  \^standing  formally  at  the  end  of  the  table 
with  his  hands  palm  to  palm}  I  make  a  mental  note 
that  you  do  not  wish  the  Americans  to  be  described  as 
barbarians. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Not  at  all.  The  Americans  are  bar- 
barians. But  we  are  not.  I  suppose  the  particular 
barbarian  you  are  speaking  of  is  the  American  who  has 
invented  a  means  of  breathing  under  water. 

CONFUCIUS.  He  says  he  has  invented  such  a  method. 
For  some  reason  which  is  not  intelligible  in  China, 
Englishmen  always  believe  any  statement  made  by  an 
American  inventor,  especially  one  who  has  never  invented 
anything.  Therefore  you  believe  this  person  and  have 
given  him  a  public  reception.  Today  the  Record  Office 
is  entertaining  him  with  a  display  of  the  cinemato- 
graphic records  of  all  the  eminent  Englishmen  who  have 
lost  their  lives  by  drowning  since  the  cinema  was  in- 
vented. Why  not  go  to  see  it  if  you  are  at  a  loss  for 
something  to  do  ? 

BURGE-LUBIN.     What  earthly  interest  is  there  in  look- 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  115 

ing  at  a  moving  picture  of  a  lot  of  people  merely  be- 
cause they  were  drowned?  If  they  had  had  any  sense, 
they  would  not  have  been  drowned,  probably. 

CONFUCIUS.  That  is  not  so.  It  has  never  been 
noticed  before;  but  the  Record  Office  has  just  made  two 
remarkable  discoveries  about  the  public  men  and  women 
who  have  displayed  extraordinary  ability  during  the 
past  century.  One  is  that  they  retained  unusual  youth- 
fulness  up  to  an  advanced  age.  The  other  is  that  they 
all  met  their  death  by  drowning. 

BURGE-LUBiN.     Yes :  I  know.    Can  you  explain  it? 

CONFUCIUS.  It  cannot  be  explained.  It  is  not 
reasonable.    Therefore  I  do  not  believe  it. 

The  Accountant  General  rushes  in,  looking  ghastly. 
He  staggers  to  the  middle  of  the  table. 

BURGE-LUBIN.     Whats  the  matter?    Are  you  ill? 

BARNABAS  [chohing~\  No.  I —  [he  collapses  into  the 
middle  chair^,    I  must  speak  to  you  in  private. 

Confucius  calmly  withdrawns, 

BURGE-LUBIN.  What  on  earth  is  it?  Have  some 
oxygen. 

BARNABAS.  I  havc  had  some.  Gro  to  the  Record 
Office.  You  will  see  men  fainting  there  again  and  again, 
and  being  revived  with  oxygen,  as  I  have  been.  They 
have  seen  with  their  own  eyes  as  I  have. 

BURGE-LUBIN.     Seen  what? 

BARNABAS.     Seen  the  Archbishop  of  York. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Well,  why  shouldnt  they  see  the 
Archbishop  of  York?  What  are  they  fainting  for? 
Has  he  been  murdered? 

BARNABAS.     No :  he  has  been  drowned. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Good  God !  Where?  When?  How? 
Poor  fellow ! 

RABNABAS.     Poor  f ellow !     Poor  thief!     Poor  swind- 


116  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

ler!     Poor  robber  of  his  country's  Exchequer!     Poor 
fellow  indeed !    Wait  til  I  catch  him. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  How  can  you  catch  him  when  he  is 
dead?    Youre  mad. 

BARNABAS.     Dead!    Who  said  he  was  dead? 

BUEGE-LUBiN.     You  did.    Drowned. 

BARNABAS  Icxasperatcd]  Will  you  listen  to  me  ?  Was 
old  Archbishop  Haslam,  the  present  man's  last  prede- 
cessor but  four,  drowned  or  not? 

BURGE-LUBIN.  I  dont  know.  Look  him  up  in  the 
Encyclopedia  Britannica. 

BARNABAS.  Yah!  Was  Archbishop  Stickit,  who 
wrote  Stickit  on  the  Psalms,  drowned  or  not? 

BURGE-LUBIN.     Yes,  mercifully.     He  deserved  it. 

BARNABAS.  Was  President  Dickenson  drowned?  Was 
General  Bullyboy  drowned? 

BURGE-LUBIN.     Who  is  denying  it? 

BARNABAS.  Well,  wcvc  had  moving  pictures  of  all 
four  put  on  the  screen  today  for  this  American;  and 
they  and  the  Archbishop  are  the  same  man.  Now  tell 
me  I  am  mad. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  I  do  tell  you  you  are  mad.  Stark 
raving  mad. 

BARNABAS.     Am  I  to  belicve  my  own  eyes  or  am  I  not  ? 

BURGE-LUBIN.  You  cau  do  as  you  please.  All  I  can 
tell  you  is  that  /  dont  believe  your  eyes  if  they  cant  see 
any  difference  between  a  live  archbishop  and  two  dead 
ones.  l^The  apparatus  rings,  he  holds  the  button  down~\ . 
Yes? 

THE  woman's  VOICE.  The  Archbishop  of  York,  to 
see  the  President. 

BARNABAS  [hoarse  with  rage~\  Have  him  in.  I'll  talk 
to  the  scoundrel. 

BURGE-LUBIN  \releasing  the  huttori]  Not  while  you 
.  are  in  this  state. 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  117 

BARNABAS  [reaching  furiously  for  his  button  and 
holding  it  down\  Send  the  Archbishop  in  at  once. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  If  you  lose  your  temper,  Barnabas, 
remember  that  we  shall  be  two  to  one. 

The  Archbishop  enters.  He  has  a  white  hand  round 
his  throat,  set  in  a  black  stock.  He  wears  a  sort  of  kilt 
of  black  ribbons,  and  soft  black  boots  that  button  high 
up  on  his  calves.  His  costume  does  not  differ  otherwise 
from  that  of  the  President  and  the  Accountant  General; 
but  its  color  scheme  is  black  and  white.  He  is  older  than 
the  Reverend  Bill  Haslam  was  when  he  woed  Miss  Savvy 
Barnabas;  but  he  is  recognizably  the  same  man.  He 
does  not  look  a  day  over  fifty,  and  is  very  well  preserved 
even  at  that;  but  his  boyishness  of  manner  is  quite  gone: 
he  now  has  complete  authority  and  self-possession:  in 
fact  the  President  is  a  little  afraid  of  him;  and  it  seems 
quite  natural  and  inevitable  that  he  should  speak  first, 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.     Good  day,  Mr  President. 

BURGE-LUBIN.     Good  day,  Mr  Archbishop.  Be  seated. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP  [sitting  down  between  them']  Good 
day,  Mr- Accountant  GeneraL 

BARNABAS  [molevolently]  Good  day  to  you.  I  have  a 
question  to  put  to  you,  if  you  dont  mind. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP  \looking  curiously  at  him,  jarred  by 
his  uncivil  tone]  Certainly.    What  is  it.? 

BARNABAS.     What  is  your  definition  of  a  thief? 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  Rather  an  old-fashioned  word,  is 
it  not? 

BARNABAS.     It  survivcs  officially  in  my  department. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  Our  departments  are  full  of  sur- 
vivals. Look  at  my  tie!  my  apron!  my  boots!  They 
are  all  mere  survivals ;  yet  it  seems  that  without  them  I 
cannot  be  a  proper  Archbishop. 

BARNABAS.  Indeed!  Well,  in  m}^  department  the 
word  thief  survives,  because  in  the  community  the  thing 


118  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

thief  survives.  And  a  very  despicable  and  dishonorable 
thing  he  is,  too. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP  [^cooUy]  I  daresay. 

BARNABAS.  In  my  department,  sir,  a  thief  is  a  per- 
son who  lives  longer  than  the  statutory  expectation  of 
life  entitles  him  to,  and  goes  on  drawing  public  money 
when,  if  he  were  an  honest  man,  he  would  be  dead. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  Then  let  me  say,  sir,  that  your 
department  does  not  understand  its  own  business.  If  you 
have  miscalculated  the  duration  of  human  life,  that  is 
not  the  fault  of  the  persons  whose  longevity  you  have 
miscalculated.  And  if  they  continue  to  work  and  pro- 
duce, they  pay  their  way,  even  if  they  live  two  or  three 
centuries. 

BARNABAS.  I  know  nothing  about  their  working  and 
producing.  That  is  not  the  business  of  my  department. 
I  am  concerned  with  their  expectation  of  life ;  and  I  say 
that  no  man  has  any  right  to  go  on  living  and  drawing 
money  when  he  ought  to  be  dead. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  You  do  uot  comprehend  the  rela- 
tion between  income  and  production. 

BARNABAS.     I  Understand  my  own  department. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  That  is  not  enough.  Your  de- 
partment is  part  of  a  synthesis  which  embraces  all  the 
departments. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Synthesis!  This  is  an  intellectual 
difficult3\  This  is  a  job  for  Confucius.  I  heard  him 
use  that  very  word  the  other  day ;  and  I  wondered  what 
the  devil  he  meant.  [Switching  cm~\  Hallo!  Put  me 
through  to  the  Chief  Secretary. 

coNFUcius's  VOICE.     You  are  speaking  to  him. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Au  intellectual  difficulty,  old  man. 
Something  we  dont  understand.     Come  and  help  us  out. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  May  I  ask  how  the  question  has 
arisen? 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  119 

BARNABAS.  Ah!  You  begin  to  smell  a  rat,  do  you? 
You  thought  yourself  pretty  safe.    You — 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Steady,  Barnabas.  Dont  be  in  a 
hurry. 

Confucius  enters, 

THE  ARCHBISHOP  [risvng]  Good  morning,  Mr  Chief 
Secretary. 

BURGE-LUBIN  [Hsing  in  instinctive  imitation  of  the 
Archbishop^  Honor  us  by  taking  a  seat,  O  sage. 

CONFUCIUS.  Ceremony  is  needless.  \_He  bows  to  the 
company  and  takes  the  chair  at  the  foot  of  the  table']. 

The  President  and  the  Archbishop  resume  their 
seats, 

BURGE-LUBIN.  We  wish  to  put  a  case  to  you,  Con- 
fucius. Suppose  a  man,  instead  of  conforming  to  the 
official  estimate  of  his  expectation  of  life,  were  to  live 
for  more  than  two  centuries  and  a  half,  would  the 
Accountant  General  be  justified  in  calling  him  a  thief? 

CONFUCIUS.  No.  He  would  be  justified  in  calling 
him  a  liar. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  I  think  not,  Mr  Chief  Secretary. 
What  do  you  suppose  my  age  is  ? 

CONFUCIUS.     Fifty. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  You  dout  look  it.  Forty-five ;  and 
young  for  your  age. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  My  age  is  two  hundred  and 
eighty-three. 

BARNABAS  [^moroseli/  triumphant']  Hmp !    Mad,  am  I? 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Youre  both  mad.  Excuse  me,  Arch- 
bishop ;  but  this  is  getting  a  bit — well — 

THE  ARCHBISHOP  [^o  Confucius]  Mr  Chief  Secretary: 
will  you,  to  oblige  me,  assume  that  I  have  lived  nearly 
three  centuries  ?    As  a  hypothesis. 

BURGE-LUBIN.     What  is  a  hypothesis? 

CONFUCIUS.     It  does  not  matter.    I  understand.    [To 


120  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

the  Archbishopi  Am  I  to  assume  that  you  have  Hved  in 
your  ancestors,  or  by  metempsychosis — 

BUEGE-LUBiN.  Met — Emp — Sy —  Good  Lord !  What 
a  brain,  Confucius !    What  a  brain ! 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  Nothing  of  that  kind.  Assume  in 
the  ordinary  sense  that  I  was  bom  in  the  year  1887,  and 
that  I  have  worked  continuously  in  one  profession  or 
another  since  the  year  1910.    Am  I  a  thief? 

CONFUCIUS.  I  do  not  know.  Was  that  one  of  your 
professions  ? 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  No.  I  have  been  nothing  worse 
than  an  Archbishop,  a  President,  and  a  General. 

BARNABAS.  Has  he  or  has  he  not  robbed  the  Ex- 
chequer by  drawing  five  or  six  incomes  when  he  was  only 
entitled  to  one?    Answer  me  that. 

CONFUCIUS.  Certainly  not.  The  hypothesis  is  that 
he  has  worked  continuously  since  1910.  We  are  now  in 
the  year  2170.    What  is  the  official  lifetime  ? 

BARNABAS.  Seveuty-cight.  Of  course  it's  an  ave- 
rage ;  and  we  dont  mind  a  man  here  and  there  going  on 
to  ninety,  or  even,  as  a  curiosity,  becoming  a  cente- 
narian. But  I  say  that  a  man  who  goes  beyond  that  is 
a  swindler. 

CONFUCIUS.  Seventy-eight  into  two  hundred  and 
eighty- three  goes  more  than  three  and  a  half  times. 
Your  department  owes  the  Archbishop  two  and  a  half 
educations  and  three  and  a  half  retiring  pensions. 

BARNABAS.     Stuff!    How  Can  that  be? 

CONFUCIUS.  At  what  age  do  your  people  begin  to 
work  for  the  community  ? 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Three.  They  do  certain  things  every 
day  when  they  are  three.  Just  to  break  them  in,  you 
know.  But  they  become  self-supporting,  or  nearly  so,  at 
thirteen. 

CONFUCIUS.     And  at  what  age  do  they  retire? 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  121 

BARNABAS.     Forty-thrce. 

CONFUCIUS.  That  is,  they  do  thirty  years*  work ;  and 
they  receive  maintenance  and  education,  without  work- 
ing, for  thirteen  years  of  childhood  and  thirty-five  years 
of  superannuation,  forty-eight  years  in  all,  for  each 
thirty  years'  work.  The  Archbishop  has  given  you  260 
years'  work,  and  has  received  only  one  education  and  no 
superannuation.  You  therefore  owe  him  over  300  years 
of  leisure  and  nearly  eight  educations.  You  are  thus 
heavily  in  his  debt.  In  other  words,  he  has  effected  an 
enormous  national  economy  by  living  so  long ;  and  you, 
by  living  only  seventy-eight  years,  are  profiting  at  his 
expense.  He  is  the  benefactor:  you  are  the  thief. 
IHalf  rising']  May  I  now  withdraw  and  return  to  my 
serious  business,  as  my  own  span  is  comparatively  short. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Dont  be  in  a  hurry,  old  chap.  \_Con- 
fucius  sits  down  again].  This  hypothecary,  or  what- 
ever you  call  it,  is  put  up  seriously.  I  dont  believe  it; 
but  if  the  Archbishop  and  the  Accountant  General  are 
going  to  insist  that  it's  true,  we  shall  have  either  to 
lock  them  up  or  to  see  the  thing  through. 

BARNABAS.  It's  no  use  trying  these  Chinese  subtleties 
on  me.  I'm  a  plain  man ;  and  though  I  dont  understand 
metaphysics,  and  dont  believe  in  them,  I  understand 
figures;  and  if  the  Archbishop  is  only  entitled  to 
seventy-eight  years,  and  he  takes  283,  I  say  he  takes 
more  than  he  is  entitled  to.    Get  over  that  if  you  can. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  I  have  not  taken  283  years:  I 
have  taken  23  and  given  260. 

CONFUCIUS.  Do  your  accounts  shew  a  deficiency  or  a 
surplus  ? 

BARNABAS.  A  surplus.  Thats  what  I  cant  make  out. 
Thats  the  artfulness  of  these  people. 

BURGE-LUBIN.     That  Settles  it.     Whats   the  use  of 


122  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

arguing?  The  Chink  sajs  you  are  wrong;  and  theres 
an  end  of  it. 

BARNABAS.  I  saj  nothing  against  the  Chink's  argu- 
ments.    But  what  about  my  facts? 

CONFUCIUS.  If  your  facts  include  a  case  of  a  man 
living  283  years,  I  advise  you  to  take  a  few  weeks  at  the 
seaside. 

BARNABAS.  Let  there  be  an  end  of  this  hinting  that 
I  am  out  of  my  mind.  Come  and  look  at  the  cinema 
record.  I  tell  you  this  man  is  Archbishop  Haslam, 
Archbiship  Stickit,  President  Dickenson,  General  Bully- 
boy  and  himself  into  the  bargain :  all  five  of  them. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  I  do  not  deny  it.  I  never  have 
denied  it.    Nobody  has  ever  asked  me. 

BUEGE-LUBiN.  But  damn  it,  man — I  beg  your  par- 
don. Archbishop ;  but  really,  really — 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  Dont  mention  it.  What  were  you 
going  to  say? 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Well,  you  were  drowned  four  times 
over.    You  are  not  a  cat,  you  know. 

THE  ARCHBicHOP.  That  is  Very  easy  to  understand. 
Consider  my  situation  when  I  first  made  the  amazing 
discovery  that  I  was  destined  to  live  three  hundred 
years !    I — 

CONFUCIUS  [interrupting  him]  Pardon  me.  Such  a 
discovery  was  impossible.  You  have  not  made  it  yet. 
You  may  live  a  million  years  if  you  have  already  lived 
two  hundred.  There  is  no  question  of  three  hundred 
years.  You  have  made  a  slip  at  the  very  beginning  of 
your  fairy  tale,  Mr  Archbishop. 

BUBGE-LUBiN.  Good,  Conf uclus !  [To  the  Arch- 
bishop'] He  has  you  there.  I  dont  see  how  you  can  get 
over  that. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  Yes :  it  is  quite  a  good  point.  But 
if    the   Accountant    General    will    go   to    the    British 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  123 

Museum  library,  and  search  the  catalogue,  he  will  find 
under  his  own  name  a  curious  and  now  forgotten  book, 
dated  1924,  entitled  The  Gospel  of  the  Brothers  Bar- 
nabas. That  gospel  was  that  men  must  live  three  hun- 
dred years  if  civilization  is  to  be  saved.  It  shewed  that 
this  extension  of  individual  human  life  was  possible,  and 
how  it  was  likely  to  come  about.  I  married  the  daugh- 
ter of  one  of  the  brothers. 

BARNABAS.  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  claim  to  be  a 
connection  of  mine? 

THE  AECHBiSHOP.  I  claim  nothing.  As  I  have  by 
this  time  perhaps  three  or  four  million  cousins  of  one 
degree  or  another,  I  have  ceased  to  call  on  the  family. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Gracious  heavens !  Four  million  rela- 
tives!   Is  that  calculation  correct,  Confucius? 

CONFUCIUS.  In  China  it  might  be  forty  millions  if 
there  were  no  checks  on  population. 

BUEGE-LUBiN.  This  is  a  staggerer.  It  brings  home 
to  one — ^but  [recovering']  it  isn't  true,  you  know.  Let 
us  keep  sane. 

CONFUCIUS  [to  the  Archbishop']  You  wish  us  to  under- 
stand that  the  illustrious  ancestors  of  the  Accountant 
General  communicated  to  you  a  secret  by  which  you 
could  attain  the  age  of  three  hundred  years. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  No.  Nothing  of  the  kind.  They 
simply  believed  that  mankind  could  live  any  length  of 
time  it  knew  to  be  absolutely  necessary  to  save  civiliza- 
tion from  extinction.  I  did  not  share  their  belief:  at 
least  I  was  not  conscious  of  sharing  it :  I  thought  I  was 
only  amused  by  it.  To  me  my  father-in-law  and  his 
brother  were  a  pair  of  clever  cranks  who  had  talked  one 
another  into  a  fixed  idea  which  had  become  a  monomania 
with  them.  It  was  not  until  I  got  into  serious  difficulties 
with  the  pension  authorities  after  turning  seventy  that 
I  began  to  suspect  the  truth. 


124  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

CONFUCIUS.     The  truth? 

THE  AECHBiSHOP.  Ycs,  Mr  Chief  Secretary:  the 
truth.  Like  all  revolutionary  truths,  it  began  as  a  joke. 
As  I  shewed  no  signs  of  ageing  after  forty-five,  my  wife 
used  to  make  fun  of  me  by  saying  that  I  was  certainly 
going  to  live  three  hundred  years.  She  was  sixty-eight 
when  she  died;  and  the  last  thing  she  said  to  me,  as  1 
sat  by  her  bedside  holding  her  hand,  was  "Bill:  you 
really  dont  look  fifty.  I  wonder — "  She  broke  off,  and 
fell  asleep  wondering,  and  never  awoke.  Then  I  began 
to  wonder  too.  That  is  the  explanation  of  the  three 
hundred  years,  Mr  Secretary. 

CONFUCIUS.  It  is  very  ingenious,  Mr  Archbishop. 
And  very  well  told. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Of  course  you  understand  that  /  dont 
for  a  moment  suggest  the  very  faintest  doubt  of  your 
absolute  veracity.  Archbishop.  You  know  that,  dont 
you? 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  Quite,  Mr  President.  Only  you 
dont  believe  me :  that  is  all.  I  do  not  expect  you  to.  In 
your  place  I  should  not  believe.  You  had  better  have  a 
look  at  the  films.  iPointing  to  the  Accountant  General^ 
He  believes. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  But  the  drowning?  What  about  the 
drowning?  A  man  migiht  get  drowned  once,  or  even 
twice  if  he  was  exceptionally  careless.  But  he  couldn't 
be  drowned  four  times.  He  would  run  away  from  water 
like  a  mad  dog. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  Perhaps  Mr  Chief  Secretary  can 
guess  the  explanation  of  that. 

CONFUCIUS.     To  keep  your  secret,  you  had  to  die. 

BURGE-LUBiN.     But  dash  it  all,  man,  he  isnt  dead. 

CONFUCIUS.  It  is  socially  impossible  not  to  do  what 
everybody  else  does.    One  must  die  at  the  usual  time. 

BARNABAS.     Of  course.    A  simple  point  of  honor. 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  125 

CONFUCIUS.     Not  at  all.    A  simple  necessity. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Well,  I'm  hanged  if  I  see  it.  I  should 
jolly  well  live  for  ever  if  I  could. 

THE  AECHBisHOP.  It  is  not  SO  casy  as  you  think. 
You,  Mr  Chief  Secretary,  have  grasped  the  difficulties 
of  the  position.  Let  me  remind  you,  Mr  President,  that 
I  was  over  eighty  before  the  1969  Act  for  the  Redistri- 
bution of  Income  entitled  me  to  a  handsome  retiring 
pension.  Owing  to  my  youthful  appearance  I  was 
prosecuted  for  attempting  to  obtain  public  money  on 
false  pretences  when  I  claimed  it.  I  could  prove  nothing ; 
for  the  register  of  my  birth  had  been  blown  to  pieces  by 
a  bomb  dropped  on  a  village  church  years  before  in  the 
first  of  the  big  modern  wars.  I  was  ordered  back  to 
work  as  a  man  of  forty,  and  had  to  work  for  fifteen 
years  more,  the  retiring  age  being  then  fifty-five. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  As  late  as  fifty-five !  How  did  people 
stand  it.? 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  They  made  difficulties  about  let- 
ting me  go  even  then,  I  still  looked  so  young.  For  some 
years  I  was  in  continual  trouble.  The  industrial  police 
rounded  me  up  again  and  again,  refusing  to  believe  that 
I  was  over  age.  They  began  to  call  me  the  Wandering 
Jew.  You  see  how  impossible  my  position  was.  I  fore- 
saw that  in  twenty  years  more  my  official  record  would 
prove  me  to  be  seventy-five ;  my  appearance  would  make 
it  impossible  to  believe  that  I  was  more  than  forty-five; 
and  my  real  age  would  be  one  hundred  and  seventeen. 
What  was  I  to  do ?  Bleach  my  hair?  Hobble  about  on 
two  sticks  ?  Mimic  the  voice  of  a  centenarian  ?  Better 
have  killed  myself. 

BARNABAS.  You  ought  to  have  killed  yourself.  As 
an  honest  man  you  were  entitled  to  no  more  than  an 
honest  man's  expectation  of  life. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.     I  did  kill  myself.     It  was  quit'^ 


126  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

easy.  I  left  a  suit  of  clothes  by  the  seashore  during  the 
bathing  season,  with  documents  in  the  pockets  to 
identify  me.  I  then  turned  up  in  a  strange  place,  pre- 
tending that  I  had  lost  my  memory,  and  did  not  know 
my  name  or  my  age  or  anything  about  myself.  Under 
treatment  I  recovered  my  health,  but  not  my  memory. 
I  have  had  several  careers  since  I  began  this  routine  of 
life  and  death.  I  have  been  an  archbishop  three  times. 
When  I  persuaded  the  authorities  to  knock  down  all  our 
towns  and  rebuild  them  from  the  foundations,  or  move 
them,  I  went  into  the  artillery,  and  became  a  general.  I 
have  been  President. 

BURGE-LUBiN.     Dickeusou? 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.       YeS. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  But  they  found  Dickenson's  body :  its 
ashes  are  buried  in  St.  Paul's. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  They  almost  always  found  the 
body.  During  the  bathing  season  there  are  plenty  of 
bodies.  I  have  been  cremated  again  and  again.  At  first 
I  used  to  attend  my  own  funeral  in  disguise,  because  I 
had  read  about  a  man  doing  that  in  an  old  romance  by 
an  author  named  Bennett,  from  whom  I  remember  bor- 
rowing five  pounds  in  1912.  But  I  got  tired  of  that.  I 
would  not  cross  the  street  now  to  read  my  latest  epitaph. 

The  Chief  Secretary  and  the  President  look  very 
glum.     Their  incredulity  is  vanquished  at  last. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Look  here.  Do  you  chaps  realize  how 
awful  this  is  ?  Here  we  are  sitting  calmly  in  the  presence 
of  a  man  whose  death  is  overdue  by  two  centuries.  He 
may  crumble  into  dust  before  our  eyes  at  any  moment. 

BARNABAS.  Not  he.  He'll  go  on  drawing  his  pen- 
sion until  the  end  of  the  world. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  Not  quite  that.  My  expectation 
of  life  is  only  three  hundred  years. 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  127 

BARNABAS.  You  will  last  out  uij  time  anyhow :  thats 
enough  for  me. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP  [cooZZ^/]  How  do  jou  know? 

BARNABAS  [taken  ahach^  How  do  I  know! 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  Yes :  how  do  jou  know?  I  did  not 
begin  even  to  suspect  until  I  was  nearly  seventy.  I  was 
only  vain  of  my  youthful  appearance.  I  was  not  quite 
serious  about  it  until  I  was  ninety.  Even  now  I  am  not 
sure  from  one  moment  to  another,  though  I  have  given 
you  my  reason  for  thinking  that  I  have  quite  uninten- 
tionally committed  myself  to  a  lifetime  of  three  hundred 
years. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  But  how  do  you  do  it.'*  Is  it  lemons? 
Is  it  Soya  beans?    Is  it — 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  I  do  uot  do  it.  It  happens.  It 
may  happen  to  anyone.     It  may  happen  to  j^ou. 

BURGE-I.UBIN  [the  full  significance  of  this  for  himself 
dawning  on  him~\  Then  we  three  may  be  in  the  same  boat 
with  you,  for  all  we  know  ? 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  You  may.  Therefore  I  advise  you 
to  be  very  careful  how  you  take  any  step  that  will  make 
my  position  uncomfortable. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Well,  I'm  dashed !  One  of  my  secre- 
taries was  remarking  only  this  morning  how  well  and 
young  I  am  looking.  Barnabas :  I  have  an  absolute  con- 
viction that  I  am  one  of  the — the — shall  I  say  one  of 
the  victims  ? — of  this  strange  destiny. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  Your  great-great-great-great- 
great-great-grandfather  formed  the  same  conviction 
when  he  was  between  sixty  and  seventy.    I  knew  him. 

BURGE-LUBIN  [de'pressed~\  Ah !    But  he  died. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.       No. 

BURGE-LUBIN  [hopefullv]  Do  you  mean  to  say  he  is 
still  alive? 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.     No.    He  was  shot.    Under  the  in- 


128  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

fluence  of  his  belief  that  he  was  going  to  live  three  hun- 
dred years  he  became  a  changed  man.  He  began  to  tell 
people  the  truth ;  and  they  disliked  it  so  much  that  they 
took  advantage  of  certain  clauses  of  an  Act  of  Parlia- 
ment he  had  himself  passed  during  the  Four  Years  War, 
and  had  purposely  forgotten  to  o'epeal  afterwards. 
They  took  him  to  the  Tower  of  London  and  shot  him. 

\_The  apparatus  rings.'] 

CONFUCIUS  [answering]  Yes?  [He  listens,] 

A  woman's  voice.     The  Domestic  Minister  has  called. 

BUEGE-LUBiN  [not  quite  catching  the  answer]  Who 
does  she  say  had  called.'* 

CONFUCIUS.     The  Domestic  Minister. 

BARNABAS.     Oh,  dash  it !    That  awful  woman ! 

BURGE-LUBIN.  She  Certainly  is  a  bit  of  a  terror.  I 
dont  know  exactly  why ;  for  she  is  not  at  all  bad-looking. 

BARNABAS  \_out  of  patience]  For  Heaven's  sake,  dont 
be  frivolous. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  He  cannot  help  it,  Mr  Accountant 
General.  Three  of  his  sixteen  great-great-great-grand- 
fathers married  Lubins. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Tut  tut !  I  am  not  frivolling.  /  did 
not  ask  the  lady  here.    Which  of  you  did  ? 

CONFUCIUS.  It  is  her  official  duty  to  report  person- 
ally to  the  President  once  a  quarter. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Oh,  that!  Then  I  suppose  it's  my 
official  duty  to  receive  her.  Theyd  better  send  her  in. 
You  dont  mind,  do  you?  She  will  bring  us  back  to  real 
life.  I  dont  know  how  you  fellows  feel;  but  I'm  just 
going  dotty. 

CONFUCIUS  [ynto  the  telephone]  The  President  will 
receive  the  Domestic  Minister  at  once. 

They  watch  the  door  in  silence  for  the  entrance  of 
the  Domestic  Minister, 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  129 

BURGE-LUBiN  [suddenly,  to  the  Archbishop'}  I  sup- 
pose you  have  been  married  over  and  over  again. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  Once.  You  do  not  make  vows 
until  death  when  death  is  three  hundred  years  off. 

Thei/  relapse  into  uneasy  silence.  The  Domestic 
Minister  enters.  She  is  a  handsome  woman,  apparently 
in  the  prime  of  life,  with  elegant,  tense,  well  held-up 
figure,  and  tlie  walk  of  a  goddess.  Her  expression  and 
deportment  are  grave,  swift,  decisive,  awful,  unanswer- 
able. She  wears  a  Dianesque  tunic  instead  of  a  blouse, 
and  a  silver  coronet  instead  of  a  gold  fillet.  Her  dress 
otherwise  is  not  markedly  different  from  that  of  the  men, 
who  rise  as  she  enters,  and  incline  their  heads  with  in- 
stinctive awe.  She  comes  to  the  vacant  chair  between 
Barnabas  and  Confucius, 

BURGE-LUBiN  [resolutely  genial  and  gallant}  De- 
ligihted  to  see  you,  Mrs  Lutestring. 

CONFUCIUS.  We  are  honored  by  your  celestial 
presence. 

BARNABAS.     Good  day,  madam, 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  I  have  not  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  you  before.    I  am  the  Archbishop  of  York. 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  Surcly  We  have  met,  Mr  Arch- 
bishop. I  remember  your  face.  We —  [she  checks  her- 
self  suddenly}  Ah,  no :  I  remember  now :  it  was  someone 
else.      [She  sits  down} . 

They  all  sit  down, 

THE  ARCHBISHOP  [also  puzzlcd}  Are  you  sure  you  are 
mistaken  ?  I  also  have  some  association  with  your  face, 
Mrs  Lutestring.  Something  like  a  door  opening  con- 
tinually and  revealing  you.  And  a  smile  of  welcome 
when  3^ou  recognized  me.  Did  you  ever  open  a  door  for 
me,  I  wonder? 

MRS  LUTESTRING.     I  oftcn  Opened  a  door  for  the  per- 


130  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

son  you  have  just  reminded  me  of.  But  he  has  been 
dead  many  years. 

The  rest,  eoccept  the  Archbishop,  look  at  one  another 
quichly, 

CONFUCIUS.     May  I  ask  how  many  years? 

MRS  LUTESTEiNG  [^struclc  by  hts  tone,  looks  at  him  for 
a  moment  with  some  displeasure;  then  replies^  It  does 
not  matter.    A  long  time. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  You  mustnt  rush  to  conclusions  about 
the  Archbishop,  Mrs  Lutestring.  He  is  an  older  bird 
than  you  think.    Older  than  you,  at  all  events. 

MRS  LUTESTRING  \with  a  melancholy  smile'\  I  think 
not,  Mr  President.  But  the  subject  is  a  delicate  one. 
I  had  rather  not  pursue  it. 

CONFUCIUS.  There  is  a  question  which  has  not  been 
asked. 

MRS  LUTESTRING  [very  decisively']  If  it  is  a  question 
about  my  age,  Mr  Chief  Secretary,  it  had  better  not  be 
asked.  All  that  concerns  you  about  my  personal  affairs 
can  be  found  in  the  books  of  the  Accountant  General. 

CONFUCIUS.  The  question  I  was  thinking  of  will  not 
be  addressed  to  you.  But  let  me  say  that  your  sen- 
sitiveness on  the  point  is  very  strange,  coming  from  a 
woman  so  superior  to  all  common  weaknesses  as  we  know 
you  to  be. 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  I  may  have  reasons  which  have 
nothing  to  do  with  common  weaknesses,  Mr  Chief  Secre- 
tary.   I  hope  you  will  respect  them. 

CONFUCIUS  [after  bowing  to  her  in  assent]  I  will  now 
put  my  question.  Have  you,  Mr  Archbishop,  any 
ground  for  assuming,  as  you  seem  to  do,  that  what  has 
happened  to  you  has  not  happened  to  other  people  as 
well? 

BUEGE-LUBIN.  Ycs,  bv  George !  I  never  thought  of 
that. 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  131 

THE  AECHBiSHOP.  I  have  never  met  any  case  but 
my  own. 

CONFUCIUS.     How  do  you  know? 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  Well,  no  one  has  ever  told  me  that 
they  were  in  this  extraordinary  position. 

CONFUCIUS.  That  proves  nothing.  Did  you  ever  tell 
anybody  that  you  were  in  it  ?  You  never  told  us.  Why 
did  you  never  tell  us  ? 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  I  am  Surprised  at  the  question, 
coming  from  so  astute  a  mind  as  yours,  Mr  Secretary. 
When  you  reach  the  age  I  reached  before  I  discovered 
what  was  happening  to  me,  I  was  old  enough  to  know 
and  fear  the  ferocious  hatred  with  which  human  ani- 
mals, like  all  other  animals,  turn  upon  any  unhappy 
individual  who  has  the  misfortune  to  be  unlike  themselves 
in  every  respect :  to  be  unnatural,  as  they  call  it.  You 
will  still  find,  among  the  tales  of  that  twentieth-century 
classic,  Wells,  a  story  of  a  race  of  men  who  grew  twice  as 
big  as  their  fellows,  and  another  story  of  a  man  who  fell 
into  the  hands  of  a  race  of  blind  men.  The  big  people 
had  to  fight  the  little  people  for  their  lives;  and  the 
man  with  eyes  would  have  had  his  eyes  put  out  by  the 
blind  had  he  not  fled  to  the  desert,  where  he  perished 
miserably.  Wells's  teaching,  on  that  and  other  matters, 
was  not  lost  on  me.  By  the  way,  he  lent  me  five  pounds 
once  which  I  never  repaid;  and  it  still  troubles  my 
conscience. 

CONFUCIUS.  And  were  you  the  only  reader  of  Wells? 
If  there  were  others  like  you,  had  they  not  the  same 
reason  for  keeping  the  secret.? 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  That  is  truc.  But  I  should  know. 
You  short-lived  people  are  so  childish.  If  I  met  a  man 
of  my  own  age  I  should  recognize  him  at  once.  I  have 
never  done  so. 


132  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  Would  jou  rccognlze  a  woman  of 
your  age,  do  you  think? 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  I — [He  stops  and  turns  upon  her 
with  a  searching  look,  startled  by  the  suggestion  and  the 
suspicion  it  rouses^, 

MRS  LUTESTRING.    What  IS  youT  age,  Mr  Archbishop  ? 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Two  hundred  and  eighty-three,  he 
says.  That  is  his  Kttle  joke.  Do  you  know,  Mrs  Lute- 
string, he  had  almost  talked  us  into  believing  him  when 
you  came  in  and  cleared  the  air  with  your  robust  common 
sense. 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  Do  you  realljT  feel  that,  Mr  Presi- 
dent? I  hear  the  note  of  breezy  assertion  in  your  voice. 
I  miss  the  note  of  conviction. 

BURGE-LUBIN  [jumping  upl  Look  here.  Let  us  stop 
talking  damned  nonsense.  I  dont  wish  to  be  disagree- 
able; but  it's  getting  on  my  nerves.  The  best  joke  wont 
bear  being  pushed  beyond  a  certain  point.  That  point 
has  been  reached.  I — I'm  rather  busy  this  morninpj. 
We  all  have  our  hands  pretty  full.  Confucius  here  will 
tell  you  that  I  have  a  heavy  day  before  me. 

BARNABAS.  Have  you  anything  more  important  than 
this  thing,  if  it's  true? 

BURGE-LUBIN.    Oh,  if ,  if ,  if  it's  true!    But  it  isn't  true. 

BARNABAS.    Have  you  anything  at  all  to  do? 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Anything  to  do !  Have  you  forgotten, 
Barnabas,  that  I  happen  to  be  President,  and  that  the 
weight  of  the  entire  public  business  of  this  country  is  on 
my  shoulders  ? 

BARNABAS.     Has  he  anything  to  do,  Confucius? 

CONFUCIUS.    He  has  to  be  President. 

BARNABAS.    That  mcaus  that  he  has  nothing  to  do. 

BURGE-LUBIN  [sulktly']  Very  well,  Barnabas.  Go  on 
making  a  fool  of  yourself.      \^He  sits  down'].     Go  on. 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  133 

BARNABAS.  I  ani  not  going  to  leave  this  room  until 
we  get  to  the  bottom  of  this  swindle. 

MES  LUTESTRING  Itumijig  With  deadly  gravity  on  the 
Accountant  General]  This  what,  did  you  say? 

CONFUCIUS.  These  expressions  cannot  be  sustained. 
You  obscure  the  discussion  in  using  them. 

BARNABAS  [glad  to  esca'pc  from  her  gaze  by  address- 
ing Confucius]  Well,  this  unnatural  horror.  Will  that 
satisfy  you? 

CONFUCIUS.  That  is  in  order.  But  we  do  not  com- 
mit ourselves  to  the  implications  of  the  word  horror. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  By  the  word  horror  the  Account- 
and  General  means  only  something  unusual. 

CONFUCIUS.  I  notice  that  the  honorable  Domestic 
Minister,  on  learning  the  advanced  age  of  the  venerable 
prelate,  shews  no  sign  of  surprise  or  incredulity. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  She  docsnt  take  it  seriously.  Who 
would?    Eh,  Mrs  Lutestring? 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  I  take  it  very  seriously  indeed,  Mr 
President.  I  see  now  that  I  was  not  mistaken  at  first.  I 
have  met  the  Archbishop  before. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  I  felt  sure  of  it.  This  vision  of  a 
door  opening  to  me,  and  a  woman's  face  welcoming  me, 
must  be  a  reminiscence  of  something  that  really  hap- 
pened; though  I  see  it  now  as  an  angel  opening  the 
gate  of  heaven. 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  Or  a  parlormaid  opening  the  door 
of  the  house  of  the  young  woman  you  were  in  love  with  ? 

THE  ARCHBISHOP  ImaJcing  a  wry  face]  Is  that  the 
reality?  How  these  things  grow  in  our  imagination! 
But  may  I  say,  Mrs  Lutestring,  that  the  transfigura- 
tion of  a  parlormaid  to  an  angel  is  not  more  amazing 
than  her  transfiguration  to  the  very  dignified  and  able 
Domestic  Minister  I  am  addressing.     I  recognize  the 


134  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

angel  in  you.  Frankly,  I  do  not  recognize  the  parlor- 
maid 

BURGE-LUBiN.    Whats  a  parlormaid? 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  An  cxtinct  species.  A  woman  in  a 
black  dress  and  white  apron,  who  opened  the  house  door 
when  people  knocked  or  rang,  and  was  either  your  tyrant 
or  your  slave.  I  was  a  parlormaid  in  the  house  of  one 
of  the  Accountant  General's  remote  ancestors.  [^To  Con- 
fucius^, You  asked  me  my  age,  Mr  Chief  Secretary. 
I  am  two  hundred  and  seventy-four. 

BURGE-LUBiN  [gallantly]  You  dont  look  it.  You 
really  dont  look  it. 

MRS  LUTESTRING  [^turning  her  face  gravely  towards 
him^  Look  again,  Mr  President. 

BURGE-LUBIN  [look'ing  at  her  bravely  until  the  smile 
fades  from  his  face,  and  he  suddenly  covers  his  eyes  with 
his  hands]  Yes:  you  do  look  it.  I  am  convinced.  It's 
true.  Now  call  up  the  Lunatic  Asylum,  Confucius ;  and 
tell  them  to  send  an  ambulance  for  me. 

MRS  LUTESTRING  \_to  the  Archhishop~\  Why  have  you 
given  away  your  secret?  our  secret? 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  They  found  it  out.  The  cinema 
records  betrayed  me.  But  I  never  dreamt  that  there 
were  others.    Did  you? 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  I  kncw  onc  other.  She  was  a  cook. 
She  grew  tired,  and  killed  herself. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  Dear  me!  However,  her  death 
simplifies  the  situation,  as  I  have  been  able  to  convince 
these  gentlemen  that  the  matter  had  better  go  no  fur- 
ther. 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  What !  When  the  President  knows ! 
It  will  be  all  over  the  place  before  the  end  of  the  week. 

BURGE-LUBIN  [injured]  Really,  Mrs  Lutestring !  You 
6peak  as  if  I  were  a  notoriously  indiscreet  person.  Bar- 
nabas :  have  I  such  a  reputation? 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  135 

BARNABAS  [resigfiedli/']  It  cant  be  helped.  It's  consti- 
tutional. 

CONFUCIUS.  It  is  utterly  unconstitutional.  But,  as 
you  say,  it  cannot  be  helped. 

BURGE-LUBiN  [solemnly^  I  deny  that  a  secret  of  State 
has  ever  passed  my  lips — except  perhaps  to  the  Minister 
pf  Health,  who  is  discretion  personified.  People  think,  be- 
cause she  is  a  negress — 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  It  does  uot  matter  much  now. 
Once,  it  would  have  mattered  a  great  deal.  But  my 
children  are  all  dead. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  Yes :  the  children  must  have  been  a 
terrible  difficulty.    Fortunately  for  me,  I  had  none. 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  There  was  one  daughter  who  was 
the  child  of  my  very  heart.  Some  years  after  my  first 
drowning  I  learnt  that  she  had  lost  her  sight.  I  went  to 
her.  She  was  an  old  woman  of  ninety-six,  blind.  She 
asked  me  to  sit  and  talk  with  her  because  my  voice  was 
like  the  voice  of  her  dead  mother. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  The  Complications  must  be  frightful. 
Really  I  hardly  know  whether  I  do  want  to  live  much 
longer  than  other  people. 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  You  cau  always  kill  yourself,  as 
cook  did;  but  that  was  influenza.  Long  life  is  compli- 
cated, and  even  terrible;  but  it  is  glorious  all  the  same. 
I  would  no  more  change  places  with  an  ordinary  woman 
than  with  a  ma^^fly  that  lives  only  an  hour. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.    What  Set  you  thinking  of  it  first? 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  Conrad  Barnabas'  book.  Your  wife 
told  me  it  was  more  wonderful  than  Napoleon's  Book  of 
Fate  and  Old  Moore's  Almanac,  which  cook  and  I  used 
to  read.  I  was  very  ignorant :  it  did  not  seem  so  impos- 
sible to  me  as  to  an  educated  woman.  Yet  I  forgot  all 
about  it,  and  married  and  drudged  as  a  poor  man's  wife, 


136  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

and  brought  up  children,  and  looked  twenty  years  older 
than  I  really  was,  until  one  day,  long  after  my  husband 
died  and  my  children  were  out  in  the  world  working  for 
themselves,  I  noticed  that  I  looked  twenty  years  younger 
than  I  really  was.    The  truth  came  to  me  in  a  flash. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  An  amaziug  moment.  Your  feelings 
must  have  been  beyond  description.  What  was  your  first 
thought?  * 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  Pure  terror.  I  saw  that  the  little 
money  I  had  laid  up  would  not  last,  and  that  I  must  go 
out  and  work  again.  They  had  things  called  Old  Age 
Pensions  then:  miserable  pittances  for  worn-out  old 
laborers  to  die  on.  I  thought  I  should  be  found  out  if 
I  went  on  drawing  it  too  long.  The  horror  of  facing 
another  lifetime  of  drudgery,  of  missing  my  hard-earned 
rest  and  losing  my  poor  little  savings,  drove  everything 
else  out  of  my  mind.  You  people  nowadays  can  have 
no  conception  of  the  dread  of  poverty  that  hung  over 
us  then,  or  of  the  utter  tiredness  of  forty  years'  unend- 
ing overwork  and  striving  to  make  a  shilling  do  the  work 
of  a  pound. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  I  wouder  you  did  not  kill  yourself. 
I  often  wonder  why  the  poor  in  those  evil  old  times  did 
not  kill  themselves.    They  did  not  even  kill  other  people. 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  You  never  kill  yourself,  because 
you  always  may  as  well  wait  until  tomorrow.  And  you 
have  not  energy  or  conviction  enough  to  kill  the  others. 
Besides,  how  can  you  blame  them  when  you  would  do  as 
they  do  if  you  were  in  their  place? 

BURGE-LUBIN.    Dcvilish  poor  consolation,  that. 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  There  were  other  consolations  in 
those  days  for  people  like  me.  We  drank  preparations 
of  alcohol  to  relieve  the  strain  of  living  and  give  us  an 
artificial  happiness. 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  137 

BURGE-LUBiN    {[all  together,]    Alcohol! 

CONFUCIUS       \      making      }    Pfff.  .  .  .! 

BARNABAS  [  zvTi/  faces~\   J    Disgusting. 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  A  little  alcohol  would  improve  your 
temper  and  manners,  and  make  you  much  easier  to  live 
with,  Mr  Accountant  General. 

BURGE-LUBIN  [laughing']  By  George,  I  believe  you! 
Try  it,  Barnabas. 

CONFUCIUS.  No.  Try  tea.  It  is  the  more  civilized 
poison  of  the  two. 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  You,  Mr  President,  were  bom  in- 
toxicated with  your  own  well-fed  natural  exuberance. 
You  cannot  imagine  what  alcohol  was  to  an  underfed 
poor  woman.  I  had  carefully  arranged  my  little  savings 
so  that  I  could  get  drunk,  as  we  called  it,  once  a  week ; 
and  my  only  pleasure  was  looking  forward  to  that  poor 
little  debauch.  That  is  what  saved  me  from  suicide.  I 
could  not  bear  to  miss  my  next  carouse.  But  when  I 
stopped  working,  and  lived  on  my  pension,  the  fatigue 
of  my  life's  drudgery  began  to  wear  off,  because,  you 
see,  I  was  not  really  old.  I  recuperated.  I  looked 
younger  and  younger.  And  at  last  I  was  rested  enough 
to  have  courage  and  strength  to  begin  life  again.  Be- 
sides, political  changes  were  making  it  easier:  life  was 
a  little  better  worth  living  for  the  nine-tenths  of  the 
people  who  used  to  be  mere  drudges.  After  that,  I  never 
turned  back  or  faltered.  My  only  regret  now  is  that  I 
shall  die  when  I  am  three  hundred  or  thereabouts.  There 
was  only  one  thing  that  made  life  hard ;  and  that  is  gone 
now. 

CONFUCIUS.    May  we  ask  what  that  was? 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  Perhaps  you  will  be  offended  if  I 
tell  you. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Offended !  My  dear  lady,  do  you  sup- 
pose, after  such  a  suspendous  revelation,  that  anything 


138  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

short  of  a  blow  from  a  sledge-hammer  could  produce  the 
smallest  impression  on  any  of  us  ? 

MES  LUTESTRING.  Well,  you  sce,  it  has  been  so  hard 
on  me  never  to  meet  a  grown-up  person.  You  are  all 
such  children.  And  I  never  was  very  fond  of  children, 
except  that  one  girl  who  woke  up  the  mother  passion  in 
me.    I  have  been  very  lonely  sometimes. 

BURGE-LUBiN  \^again  gallant']  But  surely,  Mrs  Lute- 
string, that  has  been  your  own  fault.  If  I  may  say  so, 
a  lady  of  your  attractions  need  never  have  been  lonely. 

MRS  LUTESTRING.      Why? 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Why!  Well — .  Well,  er — .  Well, 
er  er — .     Well !      ^He  gives  it  up]. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  He  mcaus  that  you  might  have 
married.  Curious,  how  little  they  understand  our  posi- 
tion. 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  I  did  marry,  I  married  again  on 
my  hundred  and  first  birthday.  But  of  course  I  had  to 
marry  an  elderly  man;  a  man  over  sixty.  He  was  a 
great  painter.  On  his  deathbed  he  said  to  me  "It  has 
taken  me  fifty  years  to  learn  my  trade,  and  to  paint  all 
the  foolish  pictures  a  man  must  paint  and  get  rid  of 
before  he  comes  through  them  to  the  great  things  he 
ought  to  paint.  And  now  that  my  foot  is  at  last  on  the 
threshold  of  the  temple  I  find  that  it  is  also  the  threshold 
of  my  tomb."  That  man  would  have  been  the  greatest 
painter  of  all  time  if  he  could  have  lived  as  long  as  I. 
I  saw  him  die  of  old  age  whilst  he  was  still,  as  he  said 
himself,  a  gentleman  amateur,  like  all  modern  painters. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  But  why  had  you  to  marry  an  elderly 
man?  Why  not  marry  a  young  one?  or  shall  I  say  a 
middle-aged  one  ?  If  my  own  affections  were  not  already 
engaged;  and  if,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  were  not  a  little 
afraid  of  you — for  you  are  a  very  superior  woman,  as 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  139 

we  all  acknowledge — I  should  esteem  myself  happy  in — 
er — er — 

MRS  LUTESTKiNG.  Mr  President:  have  you  ever  tried 
to  take  advantage  of  the  innocence  of  a  little  child  for 
the  gratification  of  your  senses? 

BUKGE-LUBiN.  Good  Hcavcns,  madam,  what  do  you 
take  me  for?  What  right  have  you  to  ask  me  such  a 
question  ? 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  I  am  at  present  in  my  two  hundred 
and  seventy-fifth  year.  You  suggest  that  I  should  take 
advantage  of  the  innocence  of  a  child  of  thirty,  and 
marry  it. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP,  Can  you  shortlived  people  not  un- 
derstand that  as  the  confusion  and  immaturity  and  prim- 
itive animalism  in  which  we  live  for  the  first  hundred 
years  of  our  life  is  worse  in  this  matter  of  sex  than  in 
any  other  you  are  intolerable  to  us  in  that  relation? 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Mrs  Lutestring, 
that  you  regard  me  as  a  child? 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  Do  you  expcct  me  to  regard  you 
as  a  completed  soul?  Oh,  you  may  well  be  afraid  of  me. 
There  are  moments  when  your  levity,  your  ingratitude, 
your  shallow  jollity,  make  my  gorge  rise  so  against  you 
that  if  1  could  not  remind  myself  that  you  are  a  child  I 
should  be  tempted  to  doubt  your  right  to  live  at  all. 

CONFUCIUS.  Do  you  grudge  us  the  few  years  we  have? 
you  who  have  three  hundred ! 

BURGE-LUBIN.  You  accuse  me  of  levity !  Must  I  re- 
mind you,  madam,  that  I  am  the  President,  and  that  you 
are  only  the  head  of  a  department  ? 

BARNABAS.  Ingratitude  too !  You  draw  a  pension  for 
three  hundred  years  when  we  owe  you  only  seventy- 
eight  ;  and  you  call  us  ungrateful ! 

MRS  LUTESTRING,  I  do.  When  I  think  of  the  bless- 
ings that  have  been  showered  on  you,  and  contrast  them 


140  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

with  the  poverty!  the  humiliations!  the  anxieties!  the 
heartbreak!  the  insolence  and  tyranny  that  were  the 
daily  lot  of  mankind  when  I  was  learning  to  suffer  in- 
stead of  learning  to  live !  when  I  see  how  lightly  you  take 
it  all !  how  you  quarrel  over  the  crumpled  leaves  in  your 
beds  of  roses!  how  you  are  so  dainty  about  your  work 
that  unless  it  is  made  either  interesting  or  delightful  to 
you  you  leave  it  to  negresses  and  Chinamen,  I  ask  my- 
self whether  even  three  hundred  years  of  thought  and 
experience  can  save  you  from  being  superseded  by  the 
Power  that  created  you  and  put  you  on  your  trial. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  My  dear  lady :  our  Chinese  and  colored 
friends  are  perfectly  happy.  They  are  twenty  times 
better  off  here  than  they  would  be  in  China  or  Liberia. 
They  do  their  work  admirably ;  and  in  doing  it  they  set 
us  free  for  higher  employments. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP  [who  htts  caugJit  the  infection  of  her 
indignation']  What  higher  employments  are  you  capable 
of.?  you  that  are  superannuated  at  seventy  and  dead  at 
eighty ! 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  You  are  not  really  doing  higher 
work.  You  are  supposed  to  make  the  decisions  and  give 
the  orders ;  but  the  negresses  and  the  Chinese  make  up 
your  minds  for  you  and  tell  you  what  orders  to  give, 
just  as  my  brother,  who  was  a  sergeant  in  the  Guards, 
used  to  prompt  his  officers  in  the  old  days.  When  I 
want  to  get  anything  done  at  the  Health  Ministry  I  do 
not  come  to  you:  I  go  to  the  black  lady  who  has  been 
the  real  president  during  your  present  term  of  office,  or 
to  Confucius,  who  goes  on  for  ever  while  presidents  come 
and  presidents  go. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  This  IS  outrageous.  This  is  treason 
to  the  white  race.  And  let  me  tell  you,  madam,  that  I 
have  never  in  my  life  met  the  Minister  of  Health,  and 
that  I  protest  against  the  vulgar  color  prejudice  which 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  141 

disparages  her  great  ability  and  her  eminent  services  to 
the  State.  My  relations  with  her  are  purely  telephonic, 
gramophonic,  photophonic,  and,  may  I  add,  platonic. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should 
be  ashamed  of  them  in  any  case,  Mr  President.  But  let 
us  look  at  the  position  impersonally.  Can  you  deny  that 
what  is  happening  is  that  the  English  people  have  be- 
come a  Joint  Stock  Company  admitting  Asiatics  and 
Africans  as  shareholders? 

BARNABAS.  Nothing  like  it.  I  know  all  about  the  old 
joint  stock  companies.    The  shareholders  did  no  work. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  That  is  true ;  but  we,  like  them, 
get  our  dividends  whether  we  work  or  not.  We  work 
partly  because  we  know  there  would  be  no  dividends  if 
we  did  not,  and  partly  because  if  we  refuse  we  are  re- 
garded as  mentally  deficient  and  put  into  a  lethal  cham- 
ber. But  what  do  we  work  at?  Before  the  few  changes 
we  were  forced  to  make  by  the  revolutions  that  followed 
the  Four  Years  War,  our  governing  classes  had  been  so 
rich,  as  it  was  called,  that  they  had  become  the  most  in- 
tellectually lazy  and  fat-headed  people  on  the  face  of 
the  ear'th.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  that  fat  still  cling- 
ing to  us. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  As  President,  I  must  not  listen  to  un- 
patriotic criticisms  of  our  national  character,  Mr  Arch- 
bishop. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  As  Archblshop,  Mr  President,  it 
is  my  official  duty  to  criticize  the  national  character 
unsparingly.  At  the  canonization  of  Saint  Henrik 
Ibsen,  you  yourself  unveiled  the  monument  to  him  which 
bears  on  its  pedestal  the  noble  inscription,  "I  came  not 
to  call  sinners,  but  the  righteous,  to  repentance."  The 
proof  of  what  I  say  is  that  our  routine  work,  and  what 
may  be  called  our  ornamental  and  figure-head  work,  is 
being  more  and  more  sought  after  by  the  English ;  whilst 


142  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

the  thinking,  organizing,  calculating,  directing  work  is 
done  bj  yellow  brains,  brown  brains,  and  black  brains, 
just  as  it  was  done  in  my  early  days  by  Jewish  brains, 
Scottish  brains,  Italian  brains,  German  brains.  The  only 
white  men  who  still  do  serious  work  are  those  who,  like 
the  Accountant  General,  have  no  capacity  for  enjoy- 
ment, and  no  social  gifts  to  make  them  welcome  outside 
their  offices. 

BARNABAS.  Coufouud  your  impudence!  I  had  gifts 
enough  to  find  you  out,  anyhow. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP  [^disregarding  this  outburst^  If  you 
were  to  kill  me  as  I  stand  here,  you  would  have  to  appoint 
an  Indian  to  succeed  me.  I  take  precedence  to-day  not 
as  a  Englishman,  but  as  a  man  with  more  than  a  century 
and  a  half  of  fully  adult  experience.  We  are  letting  all 
the  power  slip  into  the  hands  of  the  colored  people.  In 
another  hundred  years  we  shall  be  simply  their  house- 
hold pets. 

BURGE-LUBiN  [reocHng  buoyantly]  Not  the  least  dan- 
ger of  it.  I  grant  you  we  leave  the  most  troublesome 
part  of  the  labor  of  the  nation  to  them.  And  a  good 
jdb  too:  why  should  we  drudge  at  it?  But  think  of  the 
activities  of  our  leisure !  Is  there  a  jollier  place  on  earth 
to  live  in  than  England  out  of  office  hours?  And  to 
whom  do  we  owe  that?  To  ourselves,  not  to  the  niggers. 
The  nigger  and  the  Chink  are  all  right  from  Tuesday 
to  Friday ;  but  from  Friday  to  Tuesday  they  are  simply 
nowhere:  and  the  real  life  of  England  is  from  Friday 
to  Tuesday. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  That  is  terribly  true.  In  devising 
brainless  amusements;  in  pursuing  them  with  enormous 
vigor,  and  taking  them  with  eager  seriousness,  our  Eng- 
lish people  are  the  wonder  of  the  world.  Tliey  al- 
ways were.  And  it  is  just  as  well;  for  otherwise  their 
sensuality    would   become   mor'bid    and    destroy    them. 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  143 

What  appals  me  is  that  their  amusements  should  amuse 
them.  They  are  the  amusements  of  boys  and  girls. 
They  are  pardonable  up  to  the  age  of  fifty  or  sixty: 
after  that  they  are  ridiculous.  I  tell  you,  what  is  wrong 
with  us  is  that  we  are  a  non-adult  race;  and  the  Irish 
and  the  Scots,  and  the  niggers  and  Chinks,  as  you  call 
them,  though  their  lifetime  is  as  short  as  ours,  or 
shorter,  yet  do  somehow  contrive  to  grow  up  a  little 
before  they  die.  We  die  in  boyhood ;  the  maturity  that 
should  make  us  the  greatest  of  all  the  nations  lies  beyond 
the  grave  for  us.  Either  we  shall  go  under  as  grey- 
beards with  golf  clubs  in  our  hands,  or  we  must  will  to 
live  longer. 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  Yes :  that  is  it.  I  could  not  have 
expressed  it  in  words ;  but  you  have  expressed  it  for  me. 
I  felt,  even  when  I  was  an  ignorant  domestic  slave,  that 
we  had  the  possibility  of  becoming  a  great  nation  within 
us ;  but  our  faults  and  follies  drove  me  to  cynical  hope- 
lessness. We  all  ended  then  like  that.  It  is  the  highest 
creatures  who  take  the  longest  to  mature,  and  are  the 
most  helpless  during  their  immaturity.  I  know  now  that 
it  took  me  a  whole  century  to  grow  up.  I  began  my  seri- 
ous life  when  I  was  a  hundred  and  twenty.  Asiatics  can- 
not control  me :  I  am  not  a  child  in  their  hands,  as  you 
are,  Mr  President.  Neither,  I  am  sure,  is  the  Arch- 
bishop. They  respect  me.  You  are  not  grown  up 
enough  even  for  that,  though  you  were  kind  enough  to 
say  that  I  frighten  you. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Houcstly,  you  do.  And  will  you  think 
me  very  rude  if  I  say  that  if  I  must  choose  between  a 
white  woman  old  enough  to  be  my  great-grandmother 
and  a  black  woman  of  my  own  age,  I  shall  probably  find 
the  black  woman  more  sympathetic? 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  And  more  attractive  in  color,  per- 
haps? 


144  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Yes.  Since  you  ask  me,  more — well, 
not  more  attractive:  I  do  not  deny  that  you  have  an 
excellent  appearance — but  I  will  say,  richer.  More 
Venetian.  Tropical.  "The  shadowed  livery  of  the  bur- 
nished sun." 

MES  LUTESTRING.  Our  womcn,  and  their  favorite 
story  writers,  begin  already  to  talk  about  men  with 
golden  complexions. 

CONFUCIUS  [expanding  into  a  smile  all  across  both 
face  and  hody^  A-a-a-a h ! 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Well,  what  of  it,  madam?  Have  you 
read  a  very  interesting  book  by  the  librarian  of  the  Bio- 
logical Society  suggesting  that  the  future  of  the  world 
lies  with  the  Mulatto? 

MRS  LUTESTRING  [rising']  Mr  Archbishop :  if  the  white 
race  is  to  be  saved,  our  destiny  is  apparent. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.    Yes :  our  duty  is  pretty  clear. 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  Have  you  time  to  come  home  with 
me  and  discuss  the  matter? 

THE  ARCHBISHOP  [rising']  With  pleasure. 

BARNABAS  [rising  also  and  rushing  fast  Mrs  Lute- 
string to  tJie  door,  where  he  turns  to  bar  her  way]  No 
you  dont.    Burge:  you  understand,  dont  you? 

BURGE-LUBIN.    No.    What  is  it? 

BARNABAS.    These  two  are  going  to  marry. 

BURGE-LUBIN.    Why  shouldnt  they,  if  they  want  to? 

BARNABAS.  They  dont  want  to.  They  will  do  it  in  cold 
blood  because  their  children  will  live  three  hundred  years. 
It  mustnt  be  allowed. 

CONFUCIUS.  You  cannot  prevent  it.  There  is  no  law 
that  gives  j^ou  power  to  interfere  with  them. 

BARNABAS.  If  they  force  me  to  it  I  will  obtain  legis- 
lation against  marriages  above  the  age  of  seventy-eight. 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.    There  is  not  time  for  that  before 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  145 

we  are  married,  Mr  Accountant  General.  Be  good 
enough  to  get  out  of  the  lady's  way. 

BARNABAS.  There  is  time  to  send  the  lady  to  the 
lethal  chamber  before  anything  comes  of  your  marriage. 
Dont  forget  that. 

MRS  LUTESTRING.  What  nonsense,  Mr  Accountant 
General!  Good  afternoon,  Mr  President.  Good  after- 
noon, Mr  Chief  Secretary.  [They  rise  and  acknowledge 
her  salutation  with  bows.  She  walks  straight  at  the 
Accountant  General,  who  instinctively  shrinks  out  of  her 
way  as  she  leaves  the  room], 

THE  ARCHBISHOP.  I  am  surpriscd  at  you,  Mr  Barna- 
bas. Your  tone  was  like  an  echo  from  the  Dark  Ages. 
[He  follows  the  Domestic  Minister], 

Confucius,  shaking  his  head  and  clucking  with  his 
tongue  in  deprecation  of  this  painful  episode,  moves  to 
the  chair  just  vacated  by  the  Archbishop  and  stands 
behind  it  with  flolded  palTUS,  looking  at  the  President, 
The  Accountant  General  shakes  his  fist  after  the  de- 
parted visitors,  and  bursts  into  savage  abuse  of  them, 

BARNABAS.  Thieves!  Cursed  thieves!  Vampires! 
What  are  you  going  to  do,  Burge  ? 

BUBGE-LUBIN.     Do.? 

BARNABAS.  Yes,  do.  There  must  be  dozens  of  these 
people  in  existence.  Are  you  going  to  let  them  do  what 
the  two  who  have  just  left  us  mean  to  do,  and  crowd  us 
off  the  face  of  the  earth.? 

BURGE-LUBiN  [sitting  doxtm]  Oh,  come,  Barnabas! 
Wh-at  harm  are  they  doing?  Amt  you  interested  in 
them.?    Dont  you  like  them? 

BARNABAS.  Like  them !  I  hate  them.  They  are  mon- 
sters, unnatural  monsters.    They  are  poison  to  me. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  What  possiblc  objection  can  there  be 
to  their  living  as  long  as  they  can  ?  It  does  not  shorten 
our  lives,  does  it? 


146  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

BARNABAS.  If  I  have  to  die  when  I  am  seventy-eight, 
I  dont  see  why  another  man  should  be  privileged  to  live 
to  be  two  hundred  and  seventy-eight.  It  does  shorten 
my  life,  relatively.  It  makes  us  ridiculous.  If  they 
grew  to  be  twelve  feet  high  they  would  make  us  all 
dwarfs.  They  talked  to  us  as  if  we  were  children.  There 
is  no  love  lost  between  us:  their  hatred  of  us  came  out 
soon  enough.  You  heard  what  the  woman  said,  and  how 
the  Archbishop  backed  her  up  ? 

BURGE-LUBiN.    But  what  Can  we  do  to  them? 

BARNABAS.    Kill  them. 

BURGE-LUBIN.     Nonsense ! 

BARNABAS.  Lock  them  up.  Sterilize  them  somehow, 
anyhow. 

BURGE-LUBiN.    But  what  rcason  could  we  give? 

BARNABAS.  What  reason  can  you  give  for  killing  a 
snake?    Nature  tells  you  to  do  it. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  My  dear  Barnabas,  you  are  out  of 
your  mind. 

BARNABAS.  Havnt  you  said  that  once  too  often  al- 
ready this  morning? 

BURGE-LUBIN.  I  dont  belicvc  you  will  carry  a  single 
soul  with  you. 

BARNABAS.  I  Understand.  I  know  you.  You  think 
you  are  one  of  them. 

CONFUCIUS.  Mr  Accountant  General :  you  may  be  one 
of  them. 

BARNABAS.  How  dare  you  accuse  me  of  such  a  thing? 
I  am  an  honest  man,  not  a  monster.  I  won  my  place  in 
public  life  by  demonstrating  that  the  true  expectation 
of  human  life  is  seventy-eight  point  six.  And  I  will 
resist  any  attempt  to  alter  or  upset  it  to  the  last  drop 
of  my  blood  if  need  be. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Oh,  tut  tut !  Come,  come !  Pull  your- 
self together.    How  can  j^ou,  a  descendant  of  the  great 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  147 

Conrad  Barnabas,  the  man  who  is  still  remembered  by 
his  masterly  Biography  of  a  Black  Beetle,  be  so  absurd? 

BARNABAS.  You  had  better  go  and  write  the  autobi- 
ography of  a  jackass.  I  am  going  to  raise  the  country 
against  this  horror,  and  against  you,  if  you  shew  the 
slightest  sign  of  weakness  about  it. 

CONFUCIUS  [very  impressively'\  You  will  regret  it  if 
you  do. 

BARNABAS.    What  is  to  make  me  regret  it  ? 

CONFUCIUS.  Every  mortal  man  and  woman  in  the 
community  will  begin  to  count  on  living  for  three  cen- 
turies. Things  will  happen  which  you  do  not  foresee: 
terrible  things.  The  family  will  dissolve:  parents  and 
children  will  be  no  longer  the  old  and  the  young :  broth- 
ers and  sisters  will  meet  as  strangers  after  a  hundred 
years  separation:  the  ties  of  blood  will  lose  their  inno- 
cence. The  imaginations  of  men,  let  loose  over  the  pos- 
sibilities of  three  centuries  of  life,  will  drive  them  mad 
and  wreck  human  society.  This  discovery  must  be  kept 
a  dead  secret.     \_He  sits  down^l 

BARNABAS.    And  if  I  refuse  to  keep  the  secret? 

CONFUCIUS.  I  shall  have  you  safe  in  a  lunatic  asylum 
the  day  after  you  blab. 

BARNABAS.  You  f  orget  that  I  can  produce  the  Arch- 
bishop to  prove  my  statement. 

CONFUCIUS.  So  can  I.  Which  of  us  do  you  think 
he  will  support  when  I  explain  to  him  that  your  object 
in  revealing  his  age  is  to  get  him  killed  ? 

BARNABAS  [desperate]  Burge:  are  you  going  to  back 
up  this  yellow  abomination  against  me?  Are  we  public 
men  and  members  of  the  Government?  or  are  we  damned 
blackguards  ? 

CONFUCIUS  [unmoved']  Have  you  ever  known  a  public 
man  who  has  not  what  vituperative  people  call  a  danrned 


148  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

blackguard  when  some  inconsiderate  person  wanted  to 
tell  the  public  more  than  was  good  for  it? 

BARNABAS.  Hold  jour  toHguc,  jou  insolent  heathen. 
Surge :  I  spoke  to  you. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Well,  you  know,  my  dear  Barnabas, 
Confucius  is  a  very  long-headed  chap.    I  see  his  point. 

BARNABAS.  Do  you?  Then  let  me  tell  you  that,  ex- 
cept officially,  I  will  never  speak  to  you  again.  Do  you 
hear? 

BURGE-LUBiN  [c}i€erfully~\  You  will.    You  will. 

BARNABAS.  And  dont  you  ever  dare  speak  to  me  again. 
Do  you  hear?     [^He  turns  to  the  door  J] 

BURGE-LUBIN.  I  will.  I  will.  Good-bye,  Barnabas. 
God  bless  you. 

BARNABAS.  May  you  live  forever,  and  be  the  laugh- 
ing-stock of  the  whole  world!  \^He  dashes  out  in  a 
fury']. 

BURGE-LUBIN  [laughing  indulgently']  He  will  keep  the 
secret  all  right.    I  know  Barnabas.    You  neednt  v/orry. 

CONFUCIUS  [troubled  and  grave]  There  are  no  secrets 
except  the  secrets  that  keep  themselves.  Consider. 
There  are  those  films  at  the  Record  Office.  We  have  no 
power  to  prevent  the  Master  of  the  Records  from  pub- 
lishing this  discovery  made  in  his  department.  We  can- 
not silence  the  American — who  can  silence  an  American  ? 
— nor  the  people  who  were  there  today  to  receive  him. 
Fortunately,  a  film  can  prove  nothing  but  a  resemblance. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Thats  Very  true.  After  all,  the  whole 
thing  is  confounded  nonsense,  isnt  it? 

CONFUCIUS  [raising  his  head  to  look  at  him]  You 
have  decided  not  to  believe  it  now  that  j^ou  realize  its  in- 
conveniences. That  is  the  English  method.  It  may  not 
work  in  this  case. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  English  be  hanged!  It's  common 
sense.    You  know,  those  two  people  got  us  hypnotized: 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  149 

not  a  doubt  of  it.  They  must  have  been  kidding  us. 
They  were,  wernt  they.? 

CONFUCIUS.  You  looked  into  that  woman's  face ;  and 
you  beheved. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Just  SO.  Thats  wherc  she  had  me.  I 
shouldnt  have  believed  her  a  bit  if  she'd  turned  her  back 
to  me. 

CONFUCIUS  [shakes  his  head  slowly  and  repeat- 
edly] ?  ?  ? 

BURGE-LUBIN.     You  really  think — ?      ^He  hesitates], 

CONFUCIUS.  The  Archbishop  has  always  been  a  puzzle 
to  me.  Ever  since  I  learnt  to  distinguish  between  one 
English  face  and  another  I  have  noticed  what  the  woman 
pointed  out :  that  the  English  face  is  not  an  adult  face, 
just  as  the  English  mind  is  not  an  adult  mind. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Stow  it,  Johu  Chinaman.  If  ever  there 
was  a  race  divinely  appointed  to  take  charge  of  the  non- 
adult  races  and  guide  them  and  train  them  and  keep 
them  out  of  mischief  until  they  grow  up  to  be  capable 
of  adopting  our  institutions,  that  race  is  the  English 
race.  It  is  the  only  race  in  the  world  that  has  that  char- 
acteristic.   Now ! 

CONFUCIUS.  That  is  the  fancy  of  a  child  nursing  a 
doll.  But  it  is  ten  times  more  childish  of  you  to  dis- 
pute the  highest  compliment  ever  paid  you. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  You  Call  it  a  compliment  to  class  us 
as  grown-up  children. 

CONFUCIUS.  Not  grown-up  children,  children  at  fifty, 
sixty,  seventy.  Your  maturity  is  so  late  that  you  never 
attain  to  it.  You  have  to  be  governed  by  races  which 
are  mature  at  forty.  That  means  that  you  are  poten- 
tially the  most  highly  developed  race  on  earth,  and 
would  be  actually  the  greatest  if  you  could  live  long 
enough  to  attain  to  maturity. 

BURGE-LUBIN  [graspiug  the  idea  at  last]  By  George, 


150  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

Confucius,  youre  right !  I  never  thought  of  that.  That 
explains  everything.  We  are  just  a  lot  of  schoolboys: 
theres  no  denying  it.  Talk  to  an  Englishman  about 
anything  serious,  and  he  listens  to  you  curiously  for  a 
moment  just  as  he  listens  to  a  chap  playing  classical 
music.  Then  he  goes  back  to  his  marine  golf,  or  motor- 
ing, or  flying,  or  women,  just  like  a  bit  of  stretched 
elastic  when  you  let  it  go.  ^Soaring  to  the  height  of  his 
theme^ .  Oh,  youre  quite  right.  We  are  only  in  our  in- 
fancy. I  ought  to  be  in  a  perambulator,  with  a  nurse 
shoving  me  along.  It's  true :  it's  absolutely  true.  But 
some  day  we'll  grow  up;  and  then,  by  Jingo,  we'll 
shew  em. 

CONFUCIUS.  The  Archbishop  is  an  adult.  When  I 
was  a  child  I  was  dominated  and  intimidated  by  people 
whom  I  now  know  to  have  been  weaker  and  sillier  than  I, 
because  there  was  some  mysterious  quality  in  their  mere 
age  that  overawed  me.  I  confess  that,  though  I  have 
kept  up  appearances,  I  have  always  been  afraid  of  the 
Archbishop. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Between  ourselves,  Confucius,  so 
have  I. 

CONFUCIUS.  It  is  this  that  convinced  me.  It  was  this 
in  the  woman's  face  that  convinced  you.  Their  new  de- 
parture in  the  history  of  the  race  is  no  fraud.  It  does 
not  even  surprise  me. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Oh,  comc !  Not  surprise  you!  It's 
your  pose  never  to  be  surprised  at  anything ;  but  if  you 
are  not  surprised  at  this  you  are  not  human. 

CONFUCIUS.  I  am  staggered,  just  as  a  man  may  be 
staggered  by  an  explosion  for  which  he  has  himself  laid 
the  charge  and  lighted  the  fuse.  But  I  am  not  sur- 
prised, because,  as  a  philosopher  and  a  student  of  evolu- 
tionary biology,  I  have  come  to  regard  some  such  devel- 
opment as  this  as  inevitable.    If  I  had  not  thus  prepared 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  151 

myself  to  be  credulous,  no  mere  evidence  of  films  and 
well-told  tales  would  have  persuaded  me  to  believe.  As 
it  is,  I  do  believe. 

BURGE-LUBiN.  Well,  that  being  settled,  what  the  devil 
is  to  happen  next?    Whats  the  next  move  for  us? 

CONFUCIUS.  We  do  not  make  the  next  move.  The 
next  move  will  be  made  by  the  Archbishop  and  the 
woman. 

BARGE-LUBix.    Their  marriage? 

CONFUCIUS.  More  than  that.  They  have  made  the 
momentous  discove-y  that  they  are  not  alone  in  the 
world.  I 

BURGE-LUBIN.    You  think  there  are  others? 

CONFUCIUS.  There  must  be  many  others.  Each  of 
them  believes  that  he  or  she  is  the  only  one  to  whom  the 
miracle  has  happened.  But  the  Archbishop  knows  better 
now.  He  will  advertise  in  terms  which  only  the  longlived 
people  will  understand.  He  will  bring  them  together  and 
organize  them.  They  will  hasten  from  all  parts  of  the 
earth.    They  will  become  a  great  Power. 

BURGE-LUBIN  [fl  UttU  alarmed^  I  say,  will  they?  I 
suppose  they  will.  I  wonder  is  Barnabas  right  after  all? 
Ought  we  to  allow  it? 

CONFUCIUS.  Nothing  that  we  can  do  will  stop  it.  We 
cannot  in  our  souls  really  want  to  stop  it :  the  vital  force 
that  has  produced  this  change  would  paralyze  our  oppo- 
sition to  it,  if  we  were  mad  enough  to  oppose.  But  we 
will  not  oppose.    You  and  I  may  be  of  the  elect,  too. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Yes :  thats  what  gets  us  every  time. 
What  the  deuce  ought  we  to  do?  Something  must  bt 
done  about  it,  you  know. 

CONFUCIUS.  Let  us  sit  still,  and  meditate  in  silence 
on  the  vistas  before  us. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  By  Gcorge,  I  believe  youre  right. 
Let  us. 


152  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

They  sit  meditating,  the  Chinajruin  naturally,  the 
President  with  visible  effort  and  intensity.  He  is  posi- 
tively glaring  into  the  future  when  the  voice  of  the 
Negress  is  heard. 

THE  NEGRESS.    Mr  President. 

BURGE-LUBiN  [joyfuUy]  Yes,  [^Taking  up  a  pegJ] 
Are  jou  at  home? 

THE  NEGRESS.     No.     Omega,  zero,  x  squared. 

The  President  rapidly  puts  the  peg  in  the  switch 
board;  works  the  dial;  and  presses  the  button.  The 
screen  becomes  transparent ;  and  the  Negress,  brilliantly 
dressed,  appears  on  what  looks  like  the  bridge  of  a  steam 
yacht  in  glorious  sea  weather.  The  installation  with 
which  she  is  communicating  is  beside  the  binnacle, 

CONFUCIUS  [looking  round,  and  recoiling  with  a  shriek 
of  disgust]  Ach !  Avaunt !  Avaunt !  [He  rushes  from  the 
'-oom]. 

BURGE-LUBIN.     What  part  of  the  coast  is  that.? 

THE  NEGRESS.  Flshguard  Bay.  Why  not  run  over 
and  join  me  for  the  afternoon?  I  am  disposed  to  be 
approachable  at  last. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  But  Fishguard !  Two  hundred  and 
seventy  miles ! 

THE  NEGRESS.  There  is  a  lightning  express  on  the 
Irish  Air  Service  at  half -past  sixteen.  They  will  drop 
you  by  a  parachute  in  the  bay.  The  dip  will  do  you 
good.  I  will  pick  you  up  and  dry  you  and  give  you  a 
first-rate,  time. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Delightful.  But  a  little  risky,  isnt 
it? 

THE  NEGRESS.  Risky !  I  thought  you  were  afraid  of 
nothing. 

BURGE-LUBIN.     I  am  not  exactly  afraid ;  but — 

THE  NEGRESS  \_offended']  But  you  think  it  is  not  good 


Part  III  The  Thing  Happens  153 

enough.  Very  well  [she  raises  her  hand  to  take  the  peg 
out  of  her  switchboard^ . 

BURGE-LUBiN  \_imploringly~\  No :  stop :  let  me  explain : 
hold  the  line  just  one  moment.     Oh,  please. 

THE  NEGRESS  [waiting  with  her  hand  poised  over  the 
peg']  Well.? 

BURGE-LUBIN.  The  fact  is,  I  have  been  behaving  very 
recklessly  for  some  time  past  under  the  impression  that 
my  life  would  be  so  short  that  it  was  not  worth  bother- 
ing about.  But  I  have  just  learnt  that  I  may  live — 
well,  much  longer  than  I  expected.  I  am  sure  your 
good  sense  will  tell  you  that  this  alters  the  case.     I — 

THE  NEGRESS  [wtth  Suppressed  rage]  Oh,  quite.  Pray 
dont  risk  your  precious  life  on  my  account.  Sorry  for 
troubling  you.  Good-bye.  [She  snatches  out  her  peg 
and  vanishes] . 

BURGE-LUBIN  [urgently]  No:  please  hold  on.  I  can 
convince  you —  [a  loud  huzz-uzz-uzz].  Engaged! 
Who  is  she  calling  up  now?  [He  presses  the  button  and 
calls]  The  Chief  Secretary.  Say  I  want  to  see  him 
again,  just  for  a  moment. 

coNFUCius's  VOICE.     Is  the  woman  gone.? 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Yes,  yes  I  it's  all  right.  Just  a 
moment  if — [Confucius  returns]  Confucius:  I  have 
some  important  business  at  Fishguard.  The  Irish  Air 
Service  can  drop  me  in  the  bay  by  parachute.  I  suppose 
it's  quite  safe,  isnt  it? 

CONFUCIUS.  Nothing  is  quite  safe.  The  air  service 
is  as  safe  as  any  other  travelling  service.  The  para- 
chute is  safe.     But  the  water  is  not  safe. 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Why?  They  will  give  me  an  unsink- 
able  tunic,  wont  they? 

CONFUCIUS.  You  will  not  sink;  but  the  sea  is  very 
cold.    You  may  get  rheumatism  for  life. 


154  The  Thing  Happens  Part  III 

BURGE-LUBiN.  For  life!  That  settles  it:  I  wont 
risk  it. 

CONFUCIUS.  Good.  You  have  at  last  become 
prudent:  you  are  no  longer  what  you  call  a  sportsman: 
you  are  a  sensible  coward,  almost  a  grown-up  man.  I 
congratulate  you. 

BURGE-LUBIN  \_resolutely~\  Coward  or  no  coward,  I 
will  not  face  an  eternity  of  rheumatism  for  any  woman 
that  ever  was  born.  \_He  rises  and  goes  to  the  rack  for 
his  fillet],  I  have  changed  my  mind;  I  am  going  home. 
\_He  cocks  the  flUet  rakisMy],     Good  evening. 

CONFUCIUS.  So  early?  If  the  Minister  of  Health 
rings  you  up,  what  shall  I  tell  her.? 

BURGE-LUBIN.  Tell  her  to  go  to  the  devil.  [^He  goes 
outl^ 

CONFUCIUS  [shaking  his  heady  shocked  at  the  Presi- 
dent's impoliteness~\  No.  No,  no,  no,  no,  no.  Oh,  these 
English!  these  crude  young  civilizations!  Their  man- 
ners !    Hogs.    Hogs. 


PART  IV 

TRAGEDY  OF 
AN  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN 

XXXV 


TRAGEDY  OF 
AN  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN 

ACT  I 

Burrin  pier  on  the  south  shore  of  Galway  Bay  in 
Ireland,  a  region  of  stone-capped  hills  and  granite  fields. 
It  is  a  fine  summer  day  in  the  year  3000  a.d.  On  an 
ancient  stone  stump y  about  three  feet  thick  and  three 
feet  high,  used  for  securing  ships  by  ropes  to  the  shore, 
and  called  a  bollard  or  holdfast,  an  elderly  gentleman 
sits  facing  the  land,  with  his  head  bowed  and  his  face  in 
his  hands,  sobbing.  His  sunburnt  skin  contrasts  with 
his  white  whiskers  and  eyebrows.  He  wears  a  black 
frock-coat,  a  white  waistcoat,  lavender  trousers,  a  bril- 
liant silk  cravat  with  a  jewelled  pin  stuck  in  it,  a  tall  hat 
of  grey  felt,  and  patent  leather  boots  with  white  spats. 
His  starched  linen  cuffs  protrude  from  his  coat  sleeves; 
and  his  collar,  also  of  starched  white  linen,  is  Glad- 
stonian.  On  his  right,  three  or  four  full  sacks,  lying 
side  by  side  on  the  flags,  suggest  that  the  pier,  unlike 
many  remote  Irish  piers,  is  occasionally  useful  as  well  as 
romantic.  On  his  left,  behind  him,  a  flight  of  stone  steps 
descends  out  of  sight  to  the  sea  level. 

A  woman  with  a  silk  tunic  and  sandals,  wearing  little 
else  except  a  cap  with  the  number  2  on  it  in  gold,  comes 
up  the  steps  from  the  sea,  and  stares  in  astonishment  at 
the  sobbing  man.  Her  age  cannot  be  guessed:  her  face 
is  firm  and  chiselled  like  a  young  face;  but  her  expres- 
sion is  unyouthful  in  its  severity  and  determination. 

THE  WOMAN.     What  is  the  matter? 
167 


158    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

The  elderly  gentleman  looks  up;  hastily  puUs  him- 
self together;  takes  out  a  silk  handkerchief  and  dries  his 
tears  lightly  with  a  brave  attempt  to  smile  through 
them;  and  tries  to  rise  gallantly,  but  sinks  back^* 

THE  WOMAN.     Do  jou  need  assistance? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  No.  Thank  JOU  Very 
much.  No.  Nothing.  The  heat.  [He  punctuates 
with  sniffs,  and  dabs  with  his  handkerchief  at  his  eyes 
and  nose^.     Hay  fever. 

THE  WOMAN.     You  are  a  foreigner,  are  you  not? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  No.  YoU  HlUSt  not  re- 
gard me  as  a  foreigner.     I  am  a  Briton. 

THE  WOMAN.  You  comc  from  some  part  of  the 
British  Commonwealth? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  {^amiably  pompous]  From 
its  capita],  madam. 

THE  WOMAN.     From  Baghdad? 

THE   ELDERLY   GENTLEMAN.       YcS.       You    may   DOt   be 

aware,  madam,  that  these  islands  were  once  the  centre 
of  the  British  Commonwealth,  during  a  period  now 
known  as  The  Exile.  They  were  its  headquarters  a 
thousand  years  ago.  Few  people  know  this  interesting 
circumstance  now;  but  I  assure  you  it  is  true.  I  have 
come  here  on  a  pious  pilgrimage  to  one  of  the  numerous 
lands  of  my  fathers.  We  are  of  the  same  stock,  you 
and  I.    Blood  is  thicker  than  water.    We  are  cousins. 

THE  WOMAN.  I  do  not  Understand.  You  say  you 
have  come  here  on  a  pious  pilgrimage.  Is  that  some 
new  means  of  transport  ? 

THE    ELDERLY    GENTLEMAN     [again   sheWing   slgTlS    of 

d%8tress'\  I  find  it  very  difficult  to  make  myself  under- 
stood here.  I  was  not  referring  to  a  machine,  but  to  a — 
a — a  sentimental  journey. 

THE  WOMAN.     I  am  afraid  I  am  as  much  in  the  dark 


Act  I      Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      159 

as  before.  You  said  also  that  blood  is  thicker  than 
water.    No  doubt  it  is ;  but  what  of  it  ? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.     Its  meaning  is  obvious. 

THE  WOMAN.  Perfectly.  But  I  assure  you  I  am 
quite  aware  that  blood  is  thicker  than  water. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [^sTiifflng :  almost  m  tears 
again]  We  will  leave  it  at  that,  madam. 

THE  WOMAN  \_gomg  nearer  to  him  and  scrutinizing 
him  with  some  concern']  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  well. 
Were  you  not  warned  that  it  is  dangerous  for  shortlived 
people  to  come  to  this  country?  There  is  a  deadly 
disease  called  discouragement,  against  which  shortlived 
people  have  to  take  very  strict  precautions.  Intercourse 
with  us  puts  too  great  a  strain  on  them. 

THE   ELDERLY   GENTLEMAN    [pulUng  himself   togcthef 

huffily]  It  has  no  effect  on  me,  madam.  I  fear  my  con- 
versation does  not  interest  you.  If  not,  the  remedy  is  in 
your  own  hands. 

THE  WOMAN  [looMng  at  her  hands,  and  then  looking 
inquiringly  at  him]  Where  ? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [hrsahing  down]  Oh,  this 
is  dreadful.  No  understanding,  no  intelligence,  no  sym- 
pathy—  [his  sobs  choke  him]. 

THE  WOMAN.     You  sec,  you  are  ill. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  \_nerved  by  indignation]  I 
am  not  ill.    I  have  never  had  a  da3'^'s  illness  in  my  life. 

THE  WOMAN.     May  I  advise  you? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  I  have  no  need  of  a  lady 
doctor,  thank  you,  madam. 

THE  WOMAN  [shaJi'iug  her  head]  I  am  afraid  I  do  not 
understand.    I  said  nothing  about  a  butterfly. 

THE     ELDERLY     GENTLEMAN.       Well,     /     Said     nothing 

about  a  butterfly. 

THE  WOMAN.  You  spoke  of  a  lady  doctor.  The  word 
is  known  here  only  as  the  name  of  a  butterfly. 


160    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

THE   ELDERLY   GENTLEMAN    {msauely']    I    give   Up.       I 

can  bear  this  no  longer.  It  is  easier  to  go  out  of  my 
mind  at  once.      \^He  rises  and  dances  ahouty  singing], 

I'd  be  a  butterfly,  born  in  a  bower, 
Making  apple  dumplings  without  any  flour. 

THE  WOMAN  IsmiUng  gravely^  It  must  be  at  least  a 
hundred  and  fifty  years  since  I  last  laughed.  But  if  you 
do  that  any  more  I  shall  certainly  break  out  like  a 
primary  of  sixty.  Your  dress  is  so  extraordinarily 
ridiculous. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [haltmg  abruptly  in  his 
antics']  My  dress  ridiculous !  I  may  not  be  dressed  like  a 
Foreign  Office  clerk;  but  my  clothes  are  perfectly  in 
fashion  in  my  native  metropolis,  where  yours — pardon 
my  saying  so — would  be  considered  extremely  unusual 
and  hardly  decent. 

THE  WOMAN.  Decent  ?  There  is  no  such  word  in  our 
language.    What  does  it  mean? 

THE    ELDERLY    GENTLEMAN.       It    WOUld   not   be    dcceut 

for  me  to  explain.  Decency  cannot  be  discussed  without 
indecency. 

THE  WOMAN.  I  canuot  understand  you  at  all.  I  fear 
you  have  not  been  observing  the  rules  laid  down  for 
shortlived  visitors. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Surely,  madam,  they  do 
not  apply  to  persons  of  my  age  and  standing.  I  am 
not  a  child,  nor  an  agricultural  laborer. 

THE  WOMAN  [severely]  They  apply  to  you  very 
strictly.  You  are  expected  to  confine  yourself  to  the 
society  of  children  under  sixty.  You  are  absolutely  for- 
bidden to  approach  fully  adult  natives  under  any  cir- 
sumstances.  You  cannot  converse  with  persons  of  my 
age  for  long  without  bringing  on  a  dangerous  attack  of 
discouragement.     Do  you  realize  that  you  are  already 


Act  I      Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      161 

shewing  grave  symptoms  of  that  very  distressing  and 
usually  fatal  complaint? 

THE  ELDEULY  GENTLEMAN.  Certainly  not,  madam.  I 
am  fortunately  in  no  clanger  of  contracting  it.  I  am 
quite  accustomed  to  converse  intimately  and  at  the 
greatest  length  with  the  most  distinguished  persons.  If 
you  cannot  discriminate  between  hay  fever  and  imbe- 
cility, I  can  only  say  that  your  advanced  years  carry 
with  them  the  inevitable  penalty  of  dotage. 

THE  WOMAN.  I  am  one  of  the  guardians  of  this  dis- 
trict; and  I  am  responsible  for  jour  welfare — 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  The  Guardiaus !  Do  you 
take  me  for  a  pauper  ? 

THE  WOMAN.  I  do  not  kuow  what  a  pauper  is.  You 
must  tell  me  who  you  are,  if  it  is  possible  for  you  to 
express  yourself  intelligibly — 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  {^sTiorts  indignantly']  ! 

THE  WOMAN  [continuing] — and  why  are  wandering 
here  alone  without  a  nurse. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [outraged]  Nurse ! 

THE  WOMAN.  Shortlived  visitors  are  not  allowed  to 
go  about  here  without  nurses.  Do  you  not  know  that 
rules  are  meant  to  be  kept? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  By  the  lowcr  classes,  no 
doubt.  But  to  persons  in  my  position  there  are  certain 
courtesies  which  are  never  denied  by  well-bred  people; 
and — 

THE  WOMAN.  There  are  only  two  human  classes 
here :  the  shortlived  and  the  normal.  The  rules  apply  to 
the  shortlived,  and  are  for  their  own  protection.  Now 
tell  m.e  at  once  who  you  are. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [tm'presswely]  Madam,  I 
am  a  retired  gentleman,  formerly  Chairman  of  the  All- 
British  Synthetic  Egg  and  Vegetable  Cheese  Trust  in 
Baghdad,  and  now  President  of  the  British  Historical 


162    Tragedy  of  an  Elderl}^  Gentleman    Part  IV 

and  Archaeological  Society,  and  a  Vice-President  of  the 
Travellers'  Club. 

THE  WOMAN.     All  that  does  not  matter. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  \_again  sTiorting']  Hm ! 
Indeed ! 

THE  WOMAN.  Have  you  been  sent  here  to  make  your 
mind  flexible  ? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  What  an  extraordinary 
question!     Pray  do  you  find  my  mind  noticeabl}'^  stiff.? 

THE  WOMAN.  Perhaps  you  do  not  know  that  you  are 
on  the  west  coast  of  Ireland,  and  that  it  is  the  practice 
among  natives  of  the  Eastern  Island  to  spend  some  years 
here  to  acquire  mental  flexibility.  The  climate  has  that 
effect. 

THE    ELDERLY    GENTLEMAN     [liaUglltlLy]     I    Was   bom, 

not  in  Eastern  Island,  but,  thank  God,  in  dear  old 
British  Baghdad;  and  I  am  not  in  need  of  a  mental 
health  resort. 

THE  WOMAN.     Then  why  are  you  here? 

THE    ELDERLY    GENTLEMAN.       Am    I    trCSpaSsing?       I 

was  not  aware  of  it. 

THE  WOMAN.  Trcspassing?  I  do  not  understand  the 
word. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Is  tliis  land  private 
property.  If  so,  I  make  no  claim.  I  proffer  a  shilling 
in  satisfaction  of  damage  (if  any),  and  am  ready  to 
withdraw  if  you  will  be  good  enough  to  shew  me  the 
nearest  way.      \^He  offers  her  a  shilling']. 

THE  WOMAN  [taking  it  and  examining  it  without  much 
interest]  I  do  not  understand  a  single  word  of  what  you 
have  just  said. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  I  am  speaking  the  plain- 
est English.    Are  you  the  landlord? 

THE  WOMAN  [shaking  her  head]  There  is  a  tradition 
vr  this  part  of  the  country  of  an  animal  with  a  name  like 


Act  I      Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      163 

that.  It  used  to  be  hunted  and  shot  in  the  barbarous 
ages.    It  is  quite  extinct  now. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [breaJcing  dowTi  again]  It 
is  a  dreadful  thing  to  be  in  a  country  where  nobody 
understands  civilized  institutions.  \_He  collapses  on  the 
bollardy  struggling  with  his  rising  sohs].  Excuse  me. 
Hay  fever. 

THE  WOMAN  \_taking  a  tuning-fork  from  her  girdle 
and  holding  it  to  her  ear;  then  speaking  into  space  on 
one  note,  like  a  chorister  intoning  a  psalm]  Burrin  Pier 
Galway  please  send  someone  to  take  charge  of  a  dis- 
couraged shortliver  who  has  escaped  from  his  nurse  male 
harmless  babbles  unintelligibly  with  moments  of  sense 
distressed  hysterical  foreign  dress  very  funny  has 
curious  fringe  of  white  sea-weed  under  his  chin. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  This  is  a  gross  imperti- 
nence.   An  insult. 

THE  WOMAN  [replacing  her  tuning-fork  and  address- 
ing the  elderly  gentleman]  These  words  mean  nothing  to 
me.  In  what  capacity  are  you  here.?  How  did  you 
obtain  permission  to  visit  us.? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [importantly]  Our  Prime 
Minister,  Mr  Badger  Bluebin,  has  come  to  consult  the 
oracle.  He  is  my  son-in-law.  We  are  accompanied  by 
his  wife  and  daughter :  my  daughter  and  granddaughter. 
I  may  mention  that'  General  Auf steig,  who  is  one  of  our 
party,  is  really  the  Emperor  of  Turania  travelling  in- 
cognito. I  understand  he  has  a  question  to  put  to  the 
oracle  informally.  I  have  come  solely  to  visit  the 
country. 

THE  WOMAN.  Why  should  you  come  to  a  place  where 
you  have  no  business  ? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Great  Heavcus,  madam, 
can  anything  be  more  natural.?     I  shall  be  the  only 


164    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

member  of  the  Travellers'  Club  who  has  set  foot  on  these 
shores.     Think  of  that !    My  position  will  be  unique. 

THE  WOMAN.  Is  that  an  advantage?  We  have  a 
person  here  who  has  lost  both  legs  in  an  accident.  His 
position  is  unique.  But  he  would  much  rather  be  like 
everyone  else. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  This  Is  maddening. 
There  is  no  analogy  whatever  between  the  two  cases, 

THE  WOMAN.     They  are  both  unique. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Conversation  in  this 
place  seems  to  consist  of  ridiculous  quibbles.  I  am 
heartily  tired  of  them. 

THE  WOMAN.  I  couclude  that  your  Travellers'  Club 
is  an  assembly  of  persons  who  wish  to  be  able  to  say  that 
they  have  been  in  some  place  where  nobody  else  has  been. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.       Of  COUrse  if  yOU  wish  tO 

sneer  at  us — 

THE  WOMAN.     What  is  sneer.'* 

THE   ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN    \_7Cith  a  wUd  SOb"]    I   shall 

drown  myself. 

He  makes  desperately  for  the  edge  of  the  pier,  but  is 
confronted  by  a  tnan  zvith  the  number  one  on  his  cap, 
who  comes  up  the  steps  and  intercepts  him.  He  is 
dressed  like  the  woman;  but  a  slight  moustache  pro- 
claims his  sex. 

THE  MAN  Ito  the  elderly  gentleman"]  Ah,  here  you  are. 
I  shall  really  have  to  put  a  collar  and  lead  on  you  if  you 
persist  in  giving  me  the  slip  like  this. 

THE  WOMAN.     Are  you  this  stranger's  nurse.'* 

THE  MAN.  Yes.  I  am  very  tired  of  him.  If  I  take 
ray  eyes  off  him  for  a  moment,  he  runs  away  and  talks 
to  everybody. 

THE  WOMAN  [after  taking  out  her  tuning-fork  and 
sounding  it,  intones  as  before]  Burrin  Pier.  Wash  out. 
\_She  puts  up  the  fork,  and  addresses  the  man].     I  sent 


Act  I      Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      165 

a  call  for  someone  to  take  care  of  him.  I  have  been  try- 
ing to  talk  to  him ;  but  I  can  understand  very  little  of 
what  he  says.  You  must  take  better  care  of  him :  he  is 
badly  discouraged  already.  If  I  can  be  of  any  further 
use,  Fusima,  Gort,  will  find  me.      [She  goes  away]. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Any  further  usc !  She 
has  been  of  no  use  to  me.  She  spoke  to  me  without  any 
introduction,  like  any  improper  female.  And  she  has 
made  off  with  my  shilling. 

THE  MAN.  Please  speak  slowly:  I  cannot  follow. 
What  is  a  shilling?  What  is  an  introduction?  Im- 
proper female  doesnt  make  sense. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Nothing  seems  to  make 
sense  here.  All  I  can  tell  you  is  that  she  was  the  most 
impenetrably  stupid  woman  I  have  ever  met  in  the  whole 
course  of  my  life. 

THE  MAN.  That  cannot  be.  She  cannot  appear 
stupid  to  you.  She  is  a  secondary,  and  getting  on  for  a 
tertiary  at  that. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  What  is  &  tertiar}^? 
Everybody  here  keeps  talking  to  me  about  primaries 
and  secondaries  and  tertiaries  as  if  p€ople  were  geo- 
logical strata. 

THE  MAN.  The  primaries  are  in  their  first  century. 
The  secondaries  are  in  their  second  century.  I  am  still 
classed  as  a  primary  [he  points  to  his  number]  ;  but  I 
may  almost  call  myself  a  secondary,  and  I  shall  be 
ninety-five  next  January.  The  tertiaries  are  in  their 
third  century.  Did  you  not  see  the  number  two  on  her 
badge?    She  is  an  advanced  secondary. 

THE    ELDERLY    GENTLEMAN.       That    aCCOUntS    for    it. 

She  is  in  her  second  childhood. 

THE  MAN.  Her  second  childhood !  She  is  in  her  fifth 
childhood. 

THE   ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN    [again  vesorting   to   the 


166    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

bollard]  Oh !  I  cannot  bear  these  unnatural  arrange- 
ments. 

THE  MAN  ^impatient  and  helpless']  You  shouldnt  have 
come  among  us.    This  is  no  place  for  you. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [nerved  by  indignation] 
May  I  ask  why?  I  am  a  Vice-President  of  the 
Travellers'  Club.  I  have  been  everywhere:  I  hold  the 
record  in  the  Club  for  civilized  countries. 

THE  MAN.     What  is  a  civilized  country  ? 

THE     ELDERLY     GENTLEMAN.       It     is Well,     it     is      a 

civilized  country.  [Desperately]  I  dont  know:  I — I — 
I — I  shall  go  mad  if  you  keep  on  asking  me  to  tell  you 
these  things  that  everybody  knows.  Countries  where 
you  can  travel  comfortably.  Where  there  are  good 
hotels.  Excuse  me ;  but,  though  you  say  you  are  ninety- 
four,  you  are  worse  company  than  a  child  of  five  with 
your  eternal  questions.  Why  not  call  me  Daddy  at 
once .? 

THE  MAN.     I  did  not  know  your  name  was  Daddy. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  My  name  is  Joscph  Pop- 
ham  Bolge  Bluebin  Barlow,  O.M. 

THE  MAN.  That  is  five  men's  names.  Daddy  is 
shorter.  And  O.M.  will  not  do  here.  It  is  our  name  for 
certain  wild  creatures,  descendants  of  the  aboriginal  in- 
habitants of  this  coast.  They  used  to  be  called  the 
O'MuUigans.    We  will  stick  to  Daddy. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  People  wiU  think  I  am 
your  father. 

THE  MAN  [sJiocTced]  Sh-sh !  People  here  never  allude 
to  such  relationships.  It  is  not  quite  delicate,  is  it? 
What  does  it  matter  whether  you  are  my  father  or  not  ? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  My  worthy  nonagenarian 
friend:  your  faculties  are  totally  decayed.  Could  you 
not  find  me  a  guide  of  my  own  age  ? 

THE  MAN.     A  young  person? 


Act  I      Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      167 

THE  ELDEFtLY  GENTI.EMAN.  Certainly  not.  I  cannot 
go  about  with  a  young  person. 

THE  MAN.      Why? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Why !  Why ! !  Why ! ! ! 
Have  you  no  moral  sense  ? 

THE  MAN.  I  shall  have  to  give  you  up.  I  cannot 
understand  you. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  But  you  meant  a  young 
woman,  didnt  you? 

THE  MAN.  I  meant  simply  somebody  of  your  own 
age.  What  difference  does  it  make  whether  the  person 
is  a  man  or  a  woman? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  I  could  not  have  believed 
in  the  existence  of  such  scandalous  insensibility  to  the 
elementary  decencies  of  human  intercourse. 

THE  MAN.     What  are  decencies? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [shrieking]  Everyone  asks 
me  that. 

THE  MAN  [taking  out  a  tuning-fork  and  using  it  as 
the  woman  did]  Zozim  on  Burrin  Pier  to  Zoo  Ennisty- 
mon  I  have  found  the  discouraged  shortliver  he  has  been 
talking  to  a  secondary  and  is  much  worse  I  am  too  old  he 
is  asking  for  someone  of  his  own  age  or  younger  come  if 
you  can.  [He  puts  up  his  fork  and  turns  to  the  Elderly 
Gentleman],  Zoo  is  a  girl  of  fifty,  and  rather  childish 
at  that.     So  perhaps  she  may  make  you  happy. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Make  me  happy!  A 
bluestocking  of  fifty !    Thank  you. 

THE  MAN.  Bluestocking?  The  effort  to  make  out 
your  meaning  is  fatiguing.  Besides,  you  are  talking 
too  much  to  me :  I  am  old  enough  to  discourage  you.  Let 
us  be  silent  until  Zoo  comes.  [He  turns  his  back  on  the 
Elderly  GentUrman,  and  sits  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
piery  with  his  legs  dangling  oxwr  the  water]. 

THE   ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.     Certainly.      I  havc  no 


168    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

wish  to  farce  my  conversation  on  any  man  who  does  not 
desire  it.  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  take  a  nap.  If  so, 
pray  do  not  stand  on  ceremony. 

THE  MAN.     What  is  a  nap? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [exosperatedy  goiTig  to  Mm 
and  speaking  with  great  precision  and  distinctness]  A 
nap,  my  friend,  is  a  brief  period  of  sleep  which  over- 
takes superannuated  persons  when  they  endeavor  to 
entertain  unwelcome  visitors  or  to  listen  to  scientific  lec- 
tures.    Sleep.     Sleep.     [Bawling  into  his  ear]  Sleep. 

THE  MAN.  I  tell  you  I  am  nearly  a  secondary.  I 
never  sleep. 

THE        ELDERLY        GENTLEMAN         \_aWestnicJi'^         Good 

Heavens ! 

A  young  woman  with  the  number  one  on  her  cap 
arrives  by  land.  She  looks  no  older  than  Savvy  Bar- 
nabas, whom  she  somewhat  resembles,  looked  a  thousand 
years  before.     Younger,  if  anything, 

THE  YOUNG  WOMAN.     Is  this  the  patient.? 

THE  MAN  [^scrambling  up]  This  is  Zoo.  [To  Zoo], 
Call  him  Daddy. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [vehemently']  No. 

THE  MAN  [ignoring  the  interruption^  Bless  you  for 
taking  him  off  my  hands !  I  have  had  as  much  of  him  as 
I  can  bear.      [He  goes  down  the  steps  and  disappears] . 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [ironically  taking  off  his 
hat  and  making  a  sweeping  bow  from  the  edge  of  the 
pier  in  the  direction  of  the  Atlantic  Ocean]  Good  after- 
noon, sir ;  and  thank  you  very  much  for  your  extraordi- 
nary politeness,  your  exquisite  consideration  for  my 
feelings,  your  courtly  manners.  Thank  you  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart.  [Clapping  his  hat  on  again']  Pig ! 
Ass! 

zoo  [laughs  very  heartily  at  him]  !  !  ! 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [turning  sharply  on  herl 


Act  I      Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      169 

Good  afternoon,  madam.  I  am  sorry  to  have  had  to  put 
your  friend  in  his  place;  but  I  find  that  here  as  else- 
where it  is  necessary  to  assert  myself  if  I  am  to  be 
treated  with  proper  consideration.  I  had  hoped  that  my 
position  as  a  guest  would  protect  me  from  insult. 

zoo.  Putting  my  friend  in  his  place.  That  is  some 
poetic  expression,  is  it  not?    What  does  it  mean? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Pray,  is  there  no  one  in 
these  islands  who  understands  plain  English? 

zoo.  Well,  nobody  except  the  oracles.  They  have  to 
make  a  special  historical  study  of  what  we  call  the  dead 
thought. 

THE  ELDEKLY  GENTLEMAN.  Dead  thought !  I  have 
heard  of  the  dead  languages,  but  never  of  the  dead 
thought. 

zoo.  Well,  thoughts  die  sooner  than  languages.  I 
understand  your  language ;  but  I  do  not  alwaj^s  under- 
stand your  thought.  The  oracles  will  understand  you 
perfectly.     Have  you  had  your  consultation  yet? 

THE    ELDERLY   GENTLEMAN.       I   did   UOt   COme    to    COn- 

sult  the  oracle,  madam.  I  am  here  simply  as  a  gentle- 
man travelling  for  pleasure  in  the  company  of  my 
daughter,  who  is  the  wife  of  the  British  Prime  Minister, 
and  of  Greneral  Aufsteig,  who,  I  may  tell  you  in  confi- 
dence, is  really  the  Emperor  of  Turania,  the  greatest 
military  genius  of  the  age. 

zoo.  Why  should  you  travel  for  pleasure !  Can  you 
not  enjoy  yourself  at  home? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.       I  wis'h  to  See  the  WOrld. 

zoo.     It  is  too  big.    You  can  see  a  bit  of  it  anywhere. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [^out  of  patience']  Damn  it, 
madam,  you  dont  want  to  spend  your  life  looking  at  the 
same  bit  of  it !  [Checking  himself]  I  beg  your  pardon 
for  swearing  in  your  presence. 

zoo.     Oh!     That  is  swearing,  is  it?     I  have  read 


170    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

about  that.  It  sounds  quite  pretty.  Dammitmaddara, 
dammitmaddam,  dammitmaddan,  dammitmaddam.  Say 
it  as  often  as  you  p-ease :  I  like  it. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  ^expanding  With  intense 
relief^  Bless  you  for  those  profane  but  familiar  words ! 
Thank  you,  thank  you.  For  the  first  time  since  I  landed 
in  this  terrible  country  I  begin  to  feel  at  home.  The 
strain  which  was  driving  me  mad  relaxes :  I  feel  almost 
as  if  I  were  at  the  club.  Excuse  my  taking  the  only 
available  seat :  I  am  not  so  young  as  I  was.  ^He  sits  on 
the  bollard^.  Promise  me  that  you  will  not  hand  me 
over  to  one  of  these  dreadful  tertiaries  or  secondaries  or 
whatever  you  call  them. 

zoo.  Never  fear.  They  had  no  business  to  give  you 
in  charge  to  Zozim.  You  see  he  is  just  on  the  verge  of 
becoming  a  secondary;  and  these  adolescents  will  give 
themselves  the  airs  of  tertiaries.  You  naturally  feel 
more  at  home  with  a  flapper  like  me.  [She  makes  her- 
self  comfortable  on  the  sacks]. 

THE    ELDERLY    GENTLEMAN.       Flapper?       What    doCS 

that  mean? 

zoo.  It  is  an  archaic  word  which  we  still  use  to 
describe  a  female  who  is  no  longer  a  girl  and  is  not  yet 
quite  adult. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  A  vcry  agreeable  age  to 
associate  with,  I  find.  I  am  recovering  rapidly.  I  have 
a  sense  of  blossoming  like  a  flower.  May  I  ask  your 
name  ? 

zoo.     Zoo. 

THE   ELDERLY   GENTLEMAN.       MisS   ZoO. 

zoo.  Not  Miss  Zoo.     Zoo. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Precisely.  Er — ^Zoo 
what? 

zoo.  No.     Not  Zoo  What.     Zoo.     Nothing  but  Zoo. 


Act  I      Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      171 

THE      ELDERLY      GENTLEMAN       \^'pUZzled/\       MrS      ZoO, 

perhaps. 

zoo.     No.    Zoo.    Cant  you  catch  it  ?    Zoo. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Of  course.  Belicve  me,  I 
did  not  really  think  you  were  married :  you  are  obviously 
too  young ;  but  here  it  is  so  hard  to  feel  sure — er — 

zoo  Ihopeles sly  puzzled^  What? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Marriage  makes  a  dif- 
ference, you  know.  One  can  say  things  to  a  married 
lady  that  would  perhaps  be  in  questionable  taste  to  any- 
one without  that  experience. 

zoo.  You  are  getting  out  of  mj  depth :  I  dont  under- 
stand a  word  you  are  saying.  Married  and  questionable 
taste  convey  nothing  to  me.  Stop,  though.  Is  married 
an  old  form  of  the  woimI  mothered? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Very  likely.  Let  us  drop 
the  subject.  Pardon  me  for  embarrassing  you.  I 
should  not  have  mentioned  it. 

zoo.     What  does  embarrassing  mean? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Well,  really!  I  should 
have  thought  that  so  natural  and  common  a  condition 
would  be  understood  as  long  as  human  nature  lasted.  To 
embarrass  is  to  bring  a  blush  to  the  cheek. 

zoo.     What  is  a  blush  ? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [amazed^  Dont  you 
blush?  ?  ? 

zoo.  Never  heard  of  it.  We  have  a  word  flush, 
meaning  a  rush  of  blood  to  the  skin.  I  have  noticed  it 
in  my  babies,  but  not  after  the  age  of  two. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Your  babies !  !  !  I  fear 
I  am  treading  on  very  delicate  ground ;  but  your  appear- 
ance is  extremely  youthful;  and  if  I  may  ask  how 
many — ? 

zoo.     Only  four  as  yet.     It  is  a  long  business  with 


172    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

us.  I  specialize  in  babies.  My  first  was  such  a  success 
that  they  made  me  go  on.    I — 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [^reeling  Oil  the  bollard^ 
Oh  dear ! 

zoo.     Whats  the  matter?    Anything  wrong? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  In  Heavcn's  name, 
madam,  how  old  are  you  ? 

zoo.     Fifty-six. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  My  kuecs  are  trembling. 
I  fear  I  am  really  ill.    Not  so  young  as  I  was. 

zoo.  I  noticed  that  you  are  not  strong  on  your  legs 
yet.  You  have  many  of  the  ways  and  weaknesses  of  a 
baby.  No  doubt  that  is  why  I  feel  called  on  to  mother 
you.    You  certainly  are  a  very  silly  little  Daddy. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [^Stimulated  by  indigfia' 
tion]  My  name,  I  repeat,  is  Joseph  Popham  Bolge  Blue- 
bin  Barlow,  O.M. 

zoo.  What  a  ridiculously  long  name!  I  cant  call 
you  all  that.    What  did  your  mother  call  you  ? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  You  recall  the  bitterest 
struggles  of  my  childhood.  I  was  sensitive  on  the  point. 
Children  suffer  greatly  from  absurd  nicknames.  My 
mother  thoughtlessly  called  me  Iddy  Toodles.  I  was 
called  Iddy  until  I  went  to  school,  when  I  made  by  first 
stand  for  children's  rights  by  insisting  on  being  called 
at  least  Joe.  At  fifteen  I  refused  to  answer  to  anything 
shorter  than  Joseph.  At  eighteen  I  discovered  that  the 
name  Joseph  was  supposed  to  indicate  an  unmanly 
prudery  because  of  some  old  story  about  a  Joseph  who 
rejected  the  advances  of  his  employer's  wife:  very 
properly  in  my  opinion.  I  then  became  Popham  to  my 
family  and  intimate  friends,  and  Mister  Barlow  to  the 
rest  of  the  world.  My  mother  slipped  back  to  Iddy 
when  her  faculties  began  to  fail  her,  poor  woman ;  but  I 
could  not  resent  that,  at  her  age. 


Act  I      Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      173 

zoo.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  your  mother  bothered 
about  you  after  you  were  ten? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Naturally,  madam.  She 
was  my  mother.    What  would  you  have  had  her  do? 

zoo.  Go  on  to  the  next,  of  course.  After  eight  or 
nine  children  become  quite  uninteresting,  except  to 
themselves.  I  shouldnt  know  my  two  eldest  if  I  met 
them. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMEN  [again  drooping~\  I  am 
dying.    Let  me  die.    I  wish  to  die. 

zoo  [going  to  him  quickly  a/nd  supporting  him^  Hold 
up.     Sit  up  straight.    Whats  the  matter? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [faintly^  My  spine,  I 
think.     Shock.     Concussion. 

zoo  [maternally^  Pow  wow  wow!  What  is  there  to 
shock  you  ?  [SJmking  him  playfully^ .  There !  Sit  up ; 
and  be  good. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [stUl  feebly]  Thank  you. 
I  am  better  now. 

zoo  [resuming  her  seat  on  the  sacks']  But  what  was 
all  the  rest  of  that  long  name  for?  There  was  a  lot 
more  of  it.    Blops  Booby  or  something. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [imprcssivcly]  Bolge  Blue- 
bin,  madam :  a  historical  name.  Let  me  inform  you  that 
I  can  trace  my  family  back  for  more  than  a  thousand 
years,  from  the  Eastern  Empire  to  its  ancient  seat  in 
these  islands,  to  a  time  when  two  of  my  ancestors,  Joyce 
Bolge  and  Hengist  Horsa  Bluebin,  wrestled  with  one 
another  for  the  prime  ministership  of  the  British  Em- 
pire, and  occupied  that  position  successively  with  a 
glory  of  which  we  can  in  these  degenerate  days  form  but 
a  faint  conception.  When  I  think  of  these  mighty  men, 
lions  in  war,  sages  in  peace,  not  babblers  and  charlatans 
like  the  pigmies  who  now  occupy  their  places  in  Bagh- 
dad, but  strong  silent  men,  ruling  an  empire  on  which 


174    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

the  sun  never  set,  my  eyes  fill  with  tears:  my  heart 
bursts  with  emotion :  I  feel  that  to  have  lived  but  to  the 
dawn  of  manhood  in  their  day,  and  then  died  for  them, 
would  have  been  a  nobler  and  happier  lot  than  the  igno- 
minious ease  of  my  present  longevity. 

zoo.     Longevity!  [She  laughs], 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Yes,  madam,  relative 
longevity.  As  it  is,  I  have  to  be  content  and  proud  to 
know  that  I  am  descended  from  both  those  heroes. 

zoo.  You  must  be  descended  from  every  Briton  who 
was  alive  in  their  time.    Dont  you  know  that  ? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Do  uot  quibble,  madam. 
I  bear  their  names,  Bolge  and  Bluebin;  and  I  hope  I 
have  inherited  something  of  their  maj  estic  spirit.  Well, 
they  were  born  in  these  islands.  I  repeat,  these  islands 
were  then,  incredible  as  it  now  seems,  the  centre  of  the 
British  Empire.  When  that  centre  shifted  to  Baghdad, 
and  the  Englishman  at  last  returned  to  the  true  cradle 
of  his  race  in  Mesopotamia,  the  western  islands  were 
cast  off,  as  they  had  been  before  by  the  Roman  Empire. 
But  it  was  to  the  British  race,  and  in  these  islands,  that 
the  greatest  miracle  in  history  occurred. 

zoo.     Miracle? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Yes :  the  first  man  to  live 
three  hundred  years  was  an  Englishman.  The  first,  that 
is,  since  the  contemporaries  of  Methuselah. 

zoo.     Oh,  that ! 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.       YcS,  that,  aS  yOU  Call  it 

so  flippantly.  Are  you  aware,  madam,  that  at  that 
immortal  moment  the  English  race  had  lost  intellectual 
credit  to  such  an  extent  that  they  habitually  spoke  of 
one  another  as  fatheads  ?  Yet  England  is  now  a  sacred 
grove  to  which  statesmen  from  all  over  the  earth  come  to 
consult  English  sages  who  speak  with  the  experience  of 
two  and  a  half  centuries  of  life.     The  land  that  once 


Act  I      Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      175 

exported  cotton  shirts  and  hardware  now  exports 
nothing  but  wisdom.  You  see  before  you,  madam,  a 
man  utterly  weary  of  the  week-end  riverside  hotels  of 
the  Euphrates,  the  minstrels  and  pierrots  on  the  sands 
of  the  Persian  Gulf,  the  toboggans  and  funiculars  of 
the  Hindoo  Koosh.  Can  you  wonder  that  I  turn,  with 
a  hungry  heart,  to  the  mystery  and  beauty  of  these 
haunted  islands,  thronged  with  spectres  from  a  magic 
past,  made  holy  by  the  footsteps  of  the  wise  men  of 
the  West.  Consider  this  island  on  which  we  stand,  the 
last  foothold  of  man  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic:  this 
Ireland,  described  by  the  earliest  bards  as  an  emerald 
gem  set  in  a  silver  sea !  Can  I,  a  scion  of  the  illustrious 
British  race,  ever  forget  that  when  the  Empire  trans- 
ferred its  seat  to  the  East,  and  said  to  the  turbulent  Irish 
race  which  it  had  oppressed  but  never  conquered,  "At 
last  we  leave  you  to  yourselves ;  and  much  good  may  it 
do  you,"  the  Irish  as  one  man  uttered  the  historic  shout 
'*No:  we'll  be  damned  if  you  do,"  and  emigrated  to  the 
countries  where  there  was  still  a  Nationalist  question,  to 
India,  Persia,  and  Corea,  to  Morocco,  Tunis,  and 
Tripoli.  In  these  countries  they  were  ever  foremost  in 
the  struggle  for  national  independence;  and  the  world 
rang  continually  with  the  story  of  their  sufferings  and 
wrongs.  And  what  poem  can  do  justice  to  the  end,  when 
it  came  at  last?  Hardly  two  hundred  years  had  elapsed 
when  the  claims  of  nationality  were  so  universally  con- 
ceded that  there  was  no  longer  a  single  country  on  the 
face  of  the  earth  with  a  national  grievance  or  a  national 
movement.  Think  of  the  position  of  the  Irish,  who  had 
lost  all  their  political  faculties  by  disuse  except  that  of 
nationalist  agitation,  and  who  owed  their  position  as 
the  most  interesting  race  on  earth  solely  to  their  suffer- 
ings! The  very  countries  they  had  helped  to  set  free 
boycotted  them  as  intolerable  bores.     The  communities 


176    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

which  had  once  idolized  them  as  the  incarnation  of  all 
that  is  adorable  in  the  warm  heart  and  wittj?  brain,  fled 
from  them  as  from  a  pestilence.  To  regain  their  lost 
prestige,  the  Irish  claimed  the  city  of  Jerusalem,  on  the 
ground  that  they  were  the  lost  tribes  of  Israel;  but  on 
their  approach  the  Jews  abandoned  the  city  and  redis- 
tributed themselves  throughout  Europe.  It  was  then 
that  these  devoted  Irishmen,  not  one  of  whom  had  ever 
seen  Ireland,  were  counselled  by  an  English  Archbishop, 
the  father  of  the  oracles,  to  go  back  to  their  own  coun- 
try. This  had  never  once  occurred  to  them,  because 
there  was  nothing  to  prevent  them  and  nobody  to  forbid 
them.  They  jumped  at  the  suggestion.  They  landed 
here:  here  in  Galway  Bay,  on  this  very  ground.  When 
they  reached  the  shore  the  older  men  and  women  flung 
themselves  down  and  passionately  kissed  the  soil  of  Ire- 
land, calling  on  the  young  to  embrace  the  earth  that 
had  borne  their  ancestors.  But  the  young  looked 
gloomily  on,  and  said  "There  is  no  earth,  only  stone." 
You  will  see  by  looking  round  you  why  they  said  that: 
the  fields  here  are  of  stone:  the  hills  are  capped  with 
granite.  They  all  left  for  England  next  day;  and  no 
Irishman  ever  again  confessed  of  being  Irish,  even  to 
his  own  children;  so  that  when  that  generation  passed 
away  the  Irish  race  vanished  from  human  knowledge. 
And  the  dispersed  Jews  did  the  same  lest  they  should 
be  sent  back  to  Palestine.  Since  then  the  world,  bereft 
of  its  Jews  and  its  Irish,  has  been  a  tame  dull  place.  Is 
there  no  pathos  for  you  in  this  story  .f*  Can  you  not 
understand  now  why  I  am  come  to  visit  the  scene  of  this 
tragic  efi^acement  of  a  race  of  heroes  and  poets? 

zoo.  We  still  tell  our  little  children  stories  like  that, 
to  help  them  to  understand.  But  such  things  do  not 
happen  really.  That  scene  of  the  Irish  landing  here  and 
kissing  the  ground  might  have  happened  to  a  hundred 


Act  I      Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      177 

people.  It  couldnt  have  happened  to  a  hundred  thou- 
sand :  jou  know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  And  what  a  ridicu- 
lous thing  to  call  people  Irish  because  they  live  in  Ire- 
land! you  might  as  well  call  them  Airish  because  they 
live  in  air.  They  must  be  just  the  same  as  other  people. 
Why  do  you  shortlivers  persist  in  making  up  silly  stories 
about  the  world  and  trying  to  act  as  if  they  were  true? 
Contact  with  truth  hurts  and  frightens  you :  you  escape 
from  it  into  an  imaginary  vacuum  in  which  you  can  in- 
dulge your  desires  and  hopes  and  loves  and  hates  with- 
out any  obstruction  from  the  solid  facts  of  life.  You 
love  to  throw  dust  in  your  own  eyes. 

THE     ELDERLY     GENTLEMAN.        It     is     my     tum     nOW, 

madam,  to  inform  you  that  I  do  not  understand  a  single 
word  you  are  saying.  1  should  have  thought  that  the 
use  of  a  vacuum  for  removmg  dust  was  a  mark  of  civili- 
zation rather  than  of  savagery. 

zoo  [giving  him  up  as  hopeless^  Oh,  Daddy,  Daddy : 
I  can  hardly  believe  that  you  are  human,  you  are  so 
stupid.  It  was  well  said  of  your  people  in  the  olden 
days,  "Dust  thou  art;  and  to  dust  thou  shalt  return." 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN    [uohly]    My  body   is   dust, 

madam:  not  my  soul.  What  does  it  matter  what  my 
body  is  made  of?  the  dust  of  the  ground,  the  particles 
of  the  air,  or  even  the  slime  of  the  ditch?  The  import- 
ant thing  is  that  when  my  Creator  took  it,  whatever  it 
was.  He  breathed  into  its  nostrils  the  breath  of  life ;  and 
Man  became  a  living  soul.  Yes,  madam,  a  living  soul. 
I  am  not  the  dust  of  the  ground:  I  am  a  living  soul. 
That  is  an  exalting,  a  magnificent  thought.  It  is  also 
a  great  scientific  fact.  I  am  not  interested  in  the  chem- 
icals and  the  microbes :  I  leave  them  to  the  chumps  and 
noodles,  to  the  blockheads  and  the  muckrakers  who  are 
incapable  of  their  own  glorious  destiny,  and  unconscious 
of  their  own  divinity.    They  tell  me  there  are  leucocytes 


178    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

in  my  blood,  and  sodium  and  carbon  in  my  flesh.  I  thank 
them  for  the  information,  and  tell  them  that  there  are 
blackbeetles  in  my  kitchen,  washing  soda  in  my  laundry, 
and  coal  in  my  cellar.  I  do  not  deny  their  existence ;  but 
I  keep  them  in  their  proper  place,  which  is  not,  if  I  may 
be  allowed  to  use  an  antiquated  form  of  expression,  the 
temple  of  the  Holj  Ghost.  No  doubt  you  think  me  be- 
hind the  times  ;  but  I  rejoice  in  my  enlightenment ;  and  I 
recoil  from  your  ignorance,  your  blindness,  your  imbe- 
cility. Humanly  I  pity  you.  Intellectually  I  despise 
you. 

zoo.  Bravo,  Daddy !  You  have  the  root  of  the  matter 
in  you.    You  will  not  die  of  discouragement  after  all. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  I  havc  not  the  Smallest  in- 
tention of  doing  so,  madam.  I  am  no  longer  young; 
and  I  have  moments  of  weakness ;  but  when  I  approach 
this  subject  the  divine  spark  in  me  kindles  and  glows, 
the  corruptible  becomes  incorruptible,  and  the  mortal 
Bolge  Bluebin  Barlow  puts  on  immortality.  On  this 
grounJ  I  am  your  equal,  even  if  you  survive  me  by  ten 
thousand  years. 

zoo.  Yes ;  but  what  do  we  know  about  this  breath  of 
life  that  puffs  you  up  so  exaltedly.?  Just  nothing.  So 
let  us  shake  hands  as  cultivated  Agnostics,  and  change 
the  subject. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Cultivated  fiddlcsticks, 
madam!  You  cannot  change  this  subject  until  the 
heavens  and  the  earth  pass  away.  I  am  not  an  Agnostic : 
I  am  a  gentleman.  When  I  believe  a  thing  I  say  I  believe 
it:  when  I  dont  believe  it  I  say  I  dont  believe  it.  I  do 
not  shirk  my  responsibilities  by  pretending  that  I  know 
nothing  and  therefore  can  believe  nothing.  We  cannot 
disclaim  knowledge  and  shirk  responsibility.  We  must 
proceed  on  assumptions  of  some  sort  or  we  cannot  form 
a  human  society. 


Act  I     Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      179 

zoo.    The  assumptions  must  be  scientific,  Daddy.    We 
must  live  by  science  in  the  long  run. 

THE  ELDEELY  GENTLEMAN.     I  have  the  UtmOSt  TCSpCCt, 

madam,  for  the  magnificent  discoveries  which  we  owe  to 
science.  But  any  fool  can  make  a  discovery.  Every  baby 
has  to  discover  more  in  the  first  years  of  its  life  than 
Roger  Bacon  ever  discovered  in  his  laboratory.  When  I 
was  seven  years  old  I  discovered  the  sting  of  the  wasp. 
But  I  do  not  ask  you  to  worship  me  on  that  account.  I 
assure  you,  madam,  the  merest  mediocrities  can  discover 
the  most  surprising  facts  about  the  physical  universe  as 
soon  as  they  are  civilized  enough  to  have  time  to  study 
these  things,  and  to  invent  instruments  and  apparatus 
for  research.  But  what  is  the  consequence.?  Their  dis- 
coveries discredit  the  simple  stories  of  our  religion.  At 
first  we  had  no  idea  of  astronomical  space.  We  believed 
the  sky  to  be  only  the  ceiling  of  a  room  as  large  as  the 
earth,  with  another  room  on  top  of  it.  Death  was  to  us 
a  going  upstairs  into  that  room,  or,  if  we  did  not  obey 
the  priests,  going  downstairs  into  the  coal  cellar.  We 
founded  our  religion,  our  morality,  our  laws,  our  lessons, 
our  poems,  our  prayers,  on  that  simple  belief.  Well, 
the  moment  men  became  astronomers  and  made  tele- 
scopes, their  belief  perished.  When  they  could  no  longer 
believe  in  the  sky,  they  found  that  they  could  no  longer 
believe  in  their  Deity,  because  they  had  always  thought 
of  him  as  living  in  the  sky.  When  the  priests  themselves 
ceased  to  believe  in  their  Deity  and  began  to  believe  in 
astronomy,  they  changed  their  name  and  their  dress,  and 
called  themselves  doctors  and  men  of  science.  They  set 
up  a  new  religion  in  which  there  was  no  Deity,  but  only 
wonders  and  miracles,  with  scientific  instruments  and 
apparatus  as  the  wonder  workers.  Instead  of  worship- 
ping the  greatness  and  wisdom  of  the  Deity,  men  gaped 
foolishly  at  the  million  billion  miles  of  space  and  wor- 


180    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

shipped  the  astronomer  as  infallible  and  omniscient. 
They  built  temples  for  his  telescopes.  Then  they  looked 
into  their  own  bodies  with  microscopes,  and  found  there, 
not  the  soul  they  had  formerly  believed  in,  but  millions 
of  micro-organisms ;  so  they  gaped  at  these  as  foolishly 
as  at  the  millions  of  miles,  and  built  microscope  temples 
in  which  horrible  sacrifices  were  offered.  They  even  gave 
their  own  bodies  to  be  sacrificed  by  the  microscope  man, 
who  was  worshipped,  like  the  astronomer,  as  infallible 
and  omniscient.  Thus  our  discoveries,  instead  of  in- 
creasing our  wisdom,  only  destroyed  the  little  childish 
wisdom  we  had.  All  I  can  grant  you  is  that  they  in- 
creased our  knowledge. 

zoo.  Nonsense !  Consciousness  of  a  fact  is  not  knowl- 
edge of  it:  if  it  were,  the  fish  would  know  more  of  the 
sea  than  the  geographers  and  the  naturalists. 

THE  ELDEELY  GENTLEMAN.  That  is  an  extremely 
acute  remark,  madam.  The  dullest  fish  could  not  pos- 
sibly know  less  of  the  majesty  of  the  ocean  than  many 
geographers  and  naturalists  of  my  acquaintance. 

zoo.  Just  so.  And  the  greatest  fool  on  earth,  by 
merely  looking  at  a  mariners'  compass,  may  become  con- 
scious of  the  fact  that  the  needle  turns  always  to  the 
pole.  Is  he  any  the  less  a  fool  with  the  consciousness 
than  he  was  without  it.? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Only  a  morc  conccitcd 
one,  madam,  no  doubt.  Still,  I  do  not  quite  see  how  you 
can  be  aware  of  the  existence  of  a  thing  without  know- 
ing it. 

zoo.  Well,  you  can  see  a  man  without  knowing  him, 
can  you  not? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [Uluminated]  Oh  how  truc ! 
Of  course,  of  course.  There  is  a  member  of  the  Travel- 
lers' Club  who  has  questioned  the  veracity  of  an  experi- 
ence of  mine  at  the  South  Pole.    I  see  that  man  almost 


Act  I      Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      181 

every  day  when  I  am  at  home.  But  I  refuse  to  know 
him. 

zoo.  If  you  could  see  him  much  more  distinctly 
through  a  magnifying  glass,  or  examine  a  drop  of  his 
blood  through  a  microscope,  or  dissect  out  all  the  organs 
and  analyze  them  chemically,  would  you  know  him  then  ? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Certainly  not.  Any  such 
investigation  could  only  increase  the  disgust  with  which 
he  inspires  me,  and  make  me  more  determined  than  ever 
not  to  know  him  on  any  terms. 

zoo.  Yet  you  would  be  much  more  conscious  of  him, 
would  you  not? 

THE   ELDERLY   GENTLEMAN.       I   should   not    alloW   that 

to  commit  me  to  any  familiarity  with  the  fellow.  I  have 
been  twice  at  the  Summer  Sports  at  the  South  Pole ;  and 
this  man  pretended  he  had  been  to  the  North  Pole,  which 
can  hardly  be  said  to  exist,  as  it  is  in  the  middle  of  the 
sea.    He  declared  he  had  hung  his  hat  on  it. 

zoo  [laugJiing~\  He  knew  that  travellers  are  amusing 
only  when  they  are  telling  lies.  Perhaps  if  you  looked 
at  that  man  through  a  microscope  you  would  find  some 
good  in  him. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  I  do  not  Want  to  find  any 
good  in  him.  Besides,  madam,  what  you  have  just  said 
encourages  me  to  utter  an  opinion  of  mine  which  Is  so 
advanced !  so  intellectually  daring !  that  I  have  never  ven- 
tured to  confess  to  it  before,  lest  I  should  be  Imprisoned 
for  blasphemy,  or  even  burnt  alive. 

zoo.    Indeed!    What  opinion  is  that? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  \_after  loohiug  cautiously 
round^  I  do  not  approve  of  microscopes.     \  never  have. 

zoo.  You  call  that  advanced!  Oh,  Daddy,  that  is 
pure  obscurantism. 

THE    ELDERLY    GENTLEMAN.       Call    it    SO    if    yOU    wIll, 

madam ;  but  I  maintain  that  it  is  dangerous  to  shew  too 


182    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

much  to  people  who  do  not  know  what  they  are  looking 
at.  I  think  that  a  man  who  is  sane  as  long  as  he  looks 
at  the  world  through  his  own  eyes  is  very  likely  to  be- 
come a  dangerous  madman  if  he  takes  to  looking  at  the 
world  through  telescopes  and  microscopes.  Even  when 
he  is  telling  fairy  stories  about  giants  and  dwarfs,  the 
giants  had  better  not  be  too  big  nor  the  dwarfs  too  small 
and  too  malicious.  Before  the  microscope  came,  our 
fairy  stories  only  made  the  children's  flesh  creep  pleas- 
antly, and  did  not  frighten  grown-up  persons  at  all. 
But  the  microscope  men  terrified  themselves  and  every- 
one else  out  of  their  wits  with  the  invisible  monsters 
they  saw:  poor  harmless  little  things  that  die  at  the 
touch  of  a  ray  of  sunshine,  and  are  themselves  the  victims 
of  all  the  diseases  they  are  supposed  to  produce !  What- 
ever the  scientific  people  may  say,  imagination  without 
microscopes  was  kindly  and  often  courageous,  because 
it  worked  on  things  of  which  it  had  some  real  knowl- 
edge. But  imagination  with  microscopes,  working  on  a 
terrifying  spectacle  of  millions  of  grotesque  creatures 
of  whose  nature  it  had  no  knowledge,  became  a  cruel, 
terror-stricken,  persecuting  delirium.  Are  you  aware, 
madam,  that  a  general  massacre  of  men  of  science  took 
place  in  the  twenty-first  century  of  the  pseudo-Christian 
era,  when  all  their  laboratories  were  demolished,  and  all 
their  apparatus  destroyed? 

zoo.  Yes:  the  shortlived  are  as  savage  in  their  ad- 
vances as  in  their  relapses.  But  when  Science  crept 
back,  it  had  been  taught  its  place.  The  mere  collectors 
of  anatomical  or  chemical  facts  were  not  supposed  to 
know  more  about  Science  than  the  collector  of  used  post- 
age stamps  about  international  trade  or  literature.  The 
scientific  terrorist  who  was  afraid  to  use  a  spoon  or  a 
tumbler  until  he  had  dipt  it  in  some  poisonous  acid  to 
kill  the  microbes,  was  no  longer  given  titles,  pensions, 


Act  I     Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      183 

and  monstrous  powers  over  the  bodies  of  other  people: 
he  was  sent  to  an  asylum,  and  treated  there  until  his 
recovery.  But  all  that  is  an  old  story:  the  extension 
of  life  to  three  hundred  years  has  provided  the  human 
race  with  capable  leaders,  and  made  short  work  of  such 
childish  stuff. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  \_pettishly^  You  seem  to 
credit  every  advance  in  civilization  to  your  inordinately 
long  livers.  Do  you  not  know  that  this  question  was 
familiar  to  men  who  died  before  they  had  reached  my 
own  age? 

zoo.  Oh  yes:  one  or  two  of  them  hinted  at  it  in  a 
feeble  way,  An  ancient  writer  whose  name  has  come 
down  to  us  in  several  forms,  such  as  Shakespear,  Shel- 
ley, Sheridan,  and  Shoddy,  has  a  remarkable  passage 
about  your  dispositions  being  horribly  shaken  by 
thoughts  beyond  the  reaches  of  your  souls.  That  does 
not  come  to  much,  does  it.? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  At  all  events,  madam,  I 
may  remind  you,  if  you  come  to  capping  ages,  that 
whatever  your  secondaries  and  tertiaries  may  be,  you 
are  younger  than  I  am. 

zoo.  Yes,  Daddy;  but  it  is  not  the  number  of  years 
we  have  behind  us,  but  the  number  we  have  before  us, 
that  makes  us  careful  and  responsible  and  determined 
to  find  out  the  truth  about  everything.  What  does  it 
matter  to  you  whether  anything  is  true  or  not?  your 
flesh  is  as  grass:  you  come  up  like  a  flower,  and  wither 
in  your  second  childhood.  A  lie  will  last  your  time:  it 
will  not  last  mine.  If  I  knew  I  had  to  die  in  twenty 
years  it  would  not  be  worth  my  while  to  educate  myself: 
I  should  not  bother  about  anything  but  having  a  little 
pleasure  while  I  lasted. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Young  woman :  you  are 
mistaken.     Shortlived  as  we  are,  we — the  best  of  us,  I 


184    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

mean — ^regard  civilization  and  learning,  art  and  science, 
as  an  ever-burning  torch,  which  passes  from  the  hand  of 
one  generation  to  the  hand  of  the  next,  each  generation 
kindling  it  to  a  brighter,  prouder  flame.  Thus  each  life- 
time, however  short,  contributes  a  brick  to  a  vast  and 
growing  edifice,  a  page  to  a  sacred  volume,  a  chapter  to 
a  Bible,  a  Bible  to  a  literature.  We  may  be  insects ;  but 
like  the  coral  insect  we  build  islands  which  become  con- 
tinents :  like  the  bee  we  store  sustenance  for  future  com- 
munities. The  individual  perishes;  but  the  race  is  im- 
mortal. The  acorn  of  today  is  the  oak  of  the  next  mil- 
lennium. I  throw  my  stone  on  the  cairn  and  die;  but 
later  comers  add  another  stone  and  yet  another ;  and  lo ! 
a  mountain.     I — 

zoo  [^interrupts  him  hy  laughing  heartily  at  hint]  !  !  ! 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [with  offended  dignity~\ 
May  I  ask  what  I  have  said  that  calls  for  this  merri- 
ment ? 

zoo.  Oh,  Daddy,  Daddy,  Daddy,  you  are  a  funny 
little  man,  with  your  torches,  and  your  flames,  and  your 
bricks  and  edifices  and  pages  and  volumes  and  chapters 
and  coral  and  insects  and  bees  and  acorns  and  stones  and 
mountains. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Mctaphors,  madam. 
Metaphors  merely. 

zoo.  Images,  images,  images.  I  was  talking  about 
men,  not  about  images. 

THE   ELDERLY   GENTLEMAN.      I   Was   illustrating not, 

I  hope,  quite  infelicitously — the  great  march  of  Prog- 
ress. I  was  shewing  you  how,  shortlived  as  we  orientals 
are,  mankind  gains  in  stature  from  generation  to  gen- 
eration, from  epoch  to  epoch,  from  barbarism  to  civiliza- 
tion, from  civilization  to  perfection. 

zoo.  I  see.  The  father  grows  to  be  six  feet  high,  and 
hands  on  his  six  feet  to  his  son,  who  adds  another  six 


Act  I      Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      185 

feet  and  becomes  twelve  feet  high,  and  hands  his  twelve 
feet  on  to  his  son,  who  is  full-grown  at  eighteen  feet,  and 
so  on.  In  a  thousand  years  you  would  all  be  three  or 
four  miles  high.  At  that  rate  your  ancestors  Bilge  and 
Bluebeard,  whom  you  call  giants,  must  have  been  about 
quarter  of  an  inch  high. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  I  am  uot  here  to  bandy 
quibbles  and  paradoxes  with  a  girl  who  blunders  over 
the  greatest  names  in  history.  I  am  in  earnest.  I  am 
treating  a  solemn  theme  seriously.  I  never  said  that  the 
son  of  a  man  six  feet  high  would  be  twelve  feet  high. 

zoo.    You  didnt  mean  that.? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.    Most  Certainly  not. 

zoo.  Then  you  didnt  mean  anything.  Now  listen  to 
me,  you  little  ephemeral  thing.  I  knew  quite  well  what 
you  meant  by  your  torch  handed  on  from  generation  to 
generation.  But  every  time  that  torc*h  is  handed  on,  it 
dies  down  to  the  tiniest  spark;  and  the  man  who  gets 
it  can  rekindle  it  only  by  his  own  light.  You  are  no 
taller  than  Bilge  or  Bluebeard;  and  you  are  no  wiser. 
Their  wisdom,  such  as  it  was,  perished  with  them:  so 
did  their  strength,  if  their  strength  ever  existed  outside 
your  imagination.  I  do  not  know  how  old  you  are :  you 
look  about  five  hundred — 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Five  hundred!  Really, 
madam — 

zoo  ^continuing]  ;  but  I  know,  of  course,  that  you 
are  an  ordinary  shortliver.  Well,  your  wisdom  is  only 
such  wisdom  as  a  man  can  have  before  he  has  had  expe- 
rience enough  to  distinguish  his  wisdom  from  his  folly, 
his  destiny  from  his  delusions,  his — 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.      In  short,  SUch  WIsdomS  aS 

your  own. 

zoo.  No,  no,  no,  no.  How  often  must  I  tell  you  that 
we  are  made  wise  not  by  the  recollections  of  our  past,  but 


186    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

by  the  responsibilities  of  our  future.  I  shall  be  more 
reckless  when  I  am  a  tertiary  than  I  am  today.  If  you 
cannot  understand  that,  at  least  you  must  admit  that  I 
have  learnt  from  tertiaries.  I  have  seen  their  work  and 
lived  under  their  institutions.  Like  all  young  things 
I  rebelled  against  them;  and  in  their  hunger  for  new 
lights  and  new  ideas  they  listened  to  me  and  encouraged 
me  to  rebel.  But  my  ways  did  not  work ;  and  theirs  did ; 
and  they  were  able  to  tell  me  why.  They  have  no  power 
over  me  except  that  power :  they  refuse  all  other  power ; 
and  the  consequence  is  that  there  are  no  limits  to  their 
power  except  the  limits  they  set  themselves.  You  are 
a  child  governed  by  children,  who  make  so  many  mis- 
takes and  are  so  naughty  that  you  are  in  continual  re- 
bellion against  them ;  and  as  they  can  never  convince  you 
that  they  are  right :  they  can  govern  you  only  by  beating 
you,  imprisoning  you,  torturing  you,  killing  you  if  you 
disobey  them  without  being  strong  enough  to  kill  or 
torture  them. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  That  may  be  an  unfortu- 
nate fact.  I  condemn  it  and  deplore  it.  But  our  minds 
are  greater  than  the  facts.  We  know  better.  The 
greatest  ancient  teachers,  followed  by  the  galaxy  of 
Christs  who  arose  in  the  twentieth  century,  not  to  men- 
tion suc?h  comparatively  modern  spiritual  leaders  as 
Blitherinjam,  Tosh,  and  Spiffkins,  all  taught  that  pun- 
ishment and  revenge,  coercion  and  militarism,  are  mis- 
takes, and  that  the  golden  rule — 

zoo  [mterrupting']  Yes,  yes,  yes,  Daddy :  we  longlived 
people  know  that  quite  well.  But  did  any  of  their  dis- 
ciples ever  succeed  in  governing  you  for  a  single  day  on 
their  Christlike  principles?  It  is  not  enough  to  know 
what  is  good :  you  must  be  able  to  do  it.  They  couldnt 
do  it  because  they  did  not  live  long  enough  to  find  out 

how  to  do  it,  or  to  outlive  the  childish  passions  that  pre-        • 

■  '4 


Act  I     Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      187 

vented  them  from  really  wanting  to  do  It.  You  know 
very  well  that  they  could  only  keep  order — such  as  it 
was — ^by  the  very  coercion  and  militarism  they  were  de- 
nouncing and  deploring.  They  had  actually  to  kill  one 
another  for  preaching  their  own  gospel,  or  be  killed 
themselves. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  The  blood  of  the  maptyrs, 
madam,  is  the  seed  of  the  Church. 

zoo.  More  images,  Daddy!  The  blood  of  the  short- 
lived falls  on  stony  ground. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [I'ising,  Very  testy]  You 
are  simply  mad  on  the  subject  of  longevity.  I  wish  you 
would  change  it.  It  is  rather  personal  and  in  bad  taste. 
Human  nature  is  human  nature,  longlived  or  shortlived, 
and  always  will  be. 

zoo.  Then  you  give  up  the  idea  of  progress?  You 
cry  off  the  torch,  and  the  brick,  and  the  acorn,  and  all 
t!ie  rest  of  it .? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  I  do  nothing  of  the  sort. 
I  stand  for  progress  and  for  freedom  broadening  down 
from  precedent  to  precedent. 

zoo.    You  are  certainly  a  true  Briton. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.       I   am  prOud   of  it.       But 

in  your  mouth  I  feel  that  the  compliment  hides  some  in- 
sult ;  so  I  do  not  thank  you  for  it. 

zoo.  All  I  meant  was  that  though  Britons  sometimes 
say  quite  clever  things  and  deep  things  as  well  as  silly 
and  shallow  things,  they  always  forget  them  ten  minutes 
after  they  have  uttered  them. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Leavc  it  at  that,  madam : 
leave  it  at  that.  [He  sits  down  again].  Even  a  Pope 
is  not  expected  to  be  continually  pontificating.  Our 
flashes  of  inspiration  shew  that  our  hearts  are  in  the 
right  place. 


188    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

zoo.  Of  course.  You  cannot  keep  your  heart  in  any 
place  but  the  right  place. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.   Tcha  ! 

zoo.  But  you  can  keep  your  hands  in  the  wrong 
place.  In  your  neighbors'  pockets,  for  example.  So, 
you  see,  it  is  your  hands  that  really  matter. 

THE      ELDEELY      GENTLEMAN       \_ex}iausted^       Well,      a 

woman  must  have  the  last  word.  I  will  not  dispute  it 
with  you. 

zoo.  Good.  Now  let  us  go  back  to  the  really  inter- 
esting subject  of  our  discussion.  You  remember?  The 
slavery  of  the  shortlived  to  images  and  metaphors. 

THE  ELDEELY  GENTLEMAN  [agliast^  Do  you  mean  to 
say,  madam,  that  after  having  talked  my  head  off,  and 
reduced  me  to  despair  and  silence  by  your  intolerable 
loquacity,  you  actually  propose  to  begin  all  over  again .? 
I  shall  leave  you  at  once. 

zoo.  You  must  not.  I  am  your  nurse ;  and  you  must 
stay  with  me. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  I  absolutely  decline  to  do 
anything  of  the  sort  [he  rises  and  walks  away  with 
marked  dignity^. 

zoo  [using  her  tuning-fork^  Zoo  on  Burrin  Pier  to 
Oracle  Police  at  Ennistymon  have  you  got  me?  .  .  . 
What?  ...  I  am  picking  you  up  now  but  you  are 
flat  to  my  pitch.  .  .  .  Just  a  shade  sharper.  .  .  . 
Thats  better :  still  a  little  more.  .  .  .  Got  you :  right. 
Isolate  Burrin  Pier  quick. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [is  heard  to  yeU^  Oh ! 

zoo  [still  intoning^  Thanks.  ...  Oh  nothing 
serious  I  am  nursing  a  shortliver  and  the  silly  creature 
has  run  away  he  has  discouraged  himself  very  badly  by 
gadding  about  and  talking  to  secondaries  and  I  must 
keep  him  strictly  to  heel. 

The  Elderly  Gentleman  returns,  indignant. 


Act  I     Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      189 

zoo.  Here  he  is  you  can  release  the  Pier  thanks. 
Good-bye.     \^She  puts  up  her  tuning-fork^ . 

THE     ELDERLY     GENTLEMAN.         This      is      OUtrageOUS. 

When  I  tried  to  step  off  the  pier  on  to  the  road,  I  re- 
ceived a  shock,  followed  by  an  attack  of  pins  and  needles 
which  ceased  only  when  I  stepped  back  on  to  the  stones. 

zoo.  Yes:  there  is  an  electric  hedge  there.  It  is  a 
very  old  and  very  crude  method  of  keeping  animals  from 
straying. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  We  are  perfectly  familiar 
with  it  in  Baghdad,  madam ;  but  I  little  thought  I  should 
live  to  have  it  ignominously  applied  to  myself.  You 
have  actually  Kiplingized  me. 

zoo.    Kiplingized!    What  is  that.? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  About  a  thousand  years 
ago  there  were  two  authors  named  Kipling.  One  was 
an  eastern  and  a  writer  of  merit:  the  other,  being  a 
western,  was  of  course  only  an  amusing  barbarian.  He 
is  said  to  have  invented  the  electric  hedge.  I  consider 
that  in  using  it  on  me  you  have  taken  a  very  great 
liberty. 

zoo.    What  is  a  liberty.? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [cxasperated]  I  shall  not 
explain,  madam.  I  believe  you  know  as  well  as  I  do. 
[He  sits  down  on  the  bollard  in  dudgeon^ . 

zoo.  No:  even  you  can  tell  me  things  I  do  not  know. 
Havnt  you  noticed  that  all  the  time  you  have  been  here 
we  have  been  asking  you  questions? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Noticed  it!  It  has  al- 
most driven  me  mad.  Do  you  see  my  white  hair?  It 
was  hardly  grey  when  I  landed:  there  were  patches  of 
its  original  auburn  still  distinctly  discernible. 

zoo.  That  is  one  of  the  symptoms  of  discouragement. 
But  have  you  noticed  something  much  more  important  to 
yourself:  that  is,  that  you  have  never  asked  us  any 


190    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

questions,  although  we  know  so  much  more  than  you  do? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN,  I  am  uot  a  child,  madam. 
I  believe  I  have  had  occasion  to  say  that  before.  And  I 
am  an  experienced  traveller.  I  know  that  what  the 
traveller  observes  must  really  exist,  or  he  could  not  ob- 
serve it.  But  what  the  natives  tell  him  is  invariably 
pure  fiction. 

zoo.  Not  here,  Daddy.  With  us  life  is  too  long  for 
telling  lies.  They  all  get  found  out.  Youd  better  ask 
me  questions  while  you  have  the  chance. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.      If  I  haVe  OCOasion  to  COU- 

sult  the  oracle  I  shall  address  myself  to  a  proper  one: 
to  a  tertiary :  not  to  a  primary  flapper  playing  at  being 
an  oracle.  If  you  are  a  nurserymaid,  attend  to  your 
duties ;  and  do  not  presume  to  ape  your  elders. 

zoo  [^rising  ominously  and  reddening^  You  silly — 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [thundeHng^  Sileucc !  Do 
you  hear !    Hold  your  tongue. 

zoo.  Something  very  disagreeable  is  happening  to 
me.  I  feel  hot  all  over.  I  have  a  horrible  impulse  to 
injure  you.     What  have  you  done  to  me? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [triumphant^  Aha !  I  have 
made  you  blush.  Now  you  know  what  blushing  means. 
Blushing  with  shame! 

zoo.  Whatever  you  are  doing,  it  is  something  so  ut- 
terly evil  that  if  you  do  not  stop  I  will  kill  you. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [apprehending  his  dan-- 
ger"]  Doubtless  you  think  it  safe  to  threaten  an  old 
man — 

zoo  [fiercely']  Old!  You  are  a  child:  an  evil  child. 
We  kill  evil  children  here.  We  do  it  even  against  our 
own  wills  by  instinct.    Take  care. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [rtsiug  with  crestfalUn 
courtesy^  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings.  I — 
[swallowing  the  apology  with  a/n  effort"]   I  beg  your 


Act  I      Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      191 

pardon.     iHe  takes  off  his  hat,  and  bows^, 

zoo.    What  does  that  mean  ? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.     I  Withdraw  what  I  said. 

zoo.    How  can  you  withdraw  what  you  said? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  I  can  Say  DO  Hiore  than 
that  I  am  sorry. 

zoo.  You  have  reason  to  be.  That  hideous  sensation 
you  gave  me  is  subsiding;  but  you  have  had  a  very 
narrow  escape.  Do  not  attempt  to  kill  me  again ;  for  at 
the  first  sign  in  your  voice  or  face  I  shall  strike  you 
dead. 

THE    ELDERLN    GENTLEMAN.       /    attempt   tO   kill    yOU ! 

What  a  monstrous  accusation! 

ZOO  [frowns~\ ! 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  Imprudently  correcting  him- 
self^ I  mean  misunderstanding.  I  never  dreamt  of  such 
a  thing.  Surely  you  cannot  believe  that  I  am  a  mur- 
derer. 

zoo.  I  know  you  are  a  murderer.  It  is  not  merely 
that  you  threw  words  at  me  as  if  they  were  stones,  mean- 
ing to  hurt  me.  It  was  the  instinct  to  kill  that  you 
roused  in  me.  I  did  not  know  it  was  in  my  nature: 
never  before  has  it  wakened  and  sprung  out  at  me,  warn- 
ing me  to  kill  or  be  killed.  I  must  now  reconsider  my 
whole  political  position.    I  am  no  longer  a  Conservative. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [dropping  h'ls  hat~\  Gra- 
cious  Heavens !  you  have  lost  your  senses.  I  am  at  the 
mercy  of  a  madwoman:  I  might  have  known  it  from 
the  beginning.  I  can  bear  no  more  of  this.  [Offering 
his  chest  for  the  sacrifice^  Kill  me  at  once:  and  much 
good  may  my  death  do  you ! 

zoo.  It  would  be  useless  unless  all  the  other  short- 
livers  were  killed  at  the  same  time.  Besides,  it  is  a 
measure  which  should  be  taken  politically  and  constitu- 


192    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

tionally,  not  privately.  However,  I  am  prepared  to  dis- 
cuss it  with  you. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.      No,  nO,  nO.      I  had  mUch 

rather  discuss  your  intention  of  withdrawing  from  the 
Conservative  party.  How  the  Conservatives  have  tol- 
erated your  opinions  so  far  is  more  than  I  can  imagine : 
I  can  only  conjecture  that  you  have  contributed  very 
liberally  to  the  party  funds.  [He  picks  up  his  haty  and 
sits  down  aga'in^, 

zoo.  Do  not  babble  so  senselessly :  our  chief  political 
controversy  is  the  most  momentous  in  the  world  for  you 
and  your  like. 

THE  ELDEELY  GENTLEMAN  [mtcrested^  Indeed?  Pray, 
may  I  ask  what  it  is.?  I  am  a  keen  politician,  and  may 
perhaps  be  of  some  use.  [He  puts  on  his  hat,  cockmg 
it  slightly^. 

zoo.  We  have  two  great  parties:  the  Conservative 
party  and  the  Colonization  party.  The  Colonizers  are 
of  opinion  that  we  should  increase  our  numbers  and 
colonize.  The  Conservatives  hold  that  we  should  stay 
as  we  are,  confined  to  these  islands,  a  race  apart, 
wrapped  up  in  the  majesty  of  our  wisdom  on  a  soil  held 
as  holy  ground  for  us  by  an  adoring  world,  with  our 
sacred  frontier  traced  beyond  dispute  by  the  sea.  They 
contend  that  it  is  our  destiny  to  rule  the  world,  and  that 
even  when  we  were  shortlived  we  did  so.  They  say  that 
our  power  and  our  peace  depend  on  our  remoteness,  our 
exclusiveness,  our  separation,  and  the  restriction  of  our 
numbers.  Five  minutes  ago  that  was  my  political  faith. 
Now  I  do  not  think  there  should  be  any  shortlived  people 
at  all.  [She  throws  herself  again  carelessly  on  the 
sacks^ . 

THE  ELDEELY  GENTLEMAN.  Am  I  to  infer  that  you 
deny  my  right  to  live  because  I  allowed  myself — ^per- 
haps injudiciously — to  give  you  a  slight  scolding.? 


Act  I      Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      193 

zoo.  Is  it  worth  living  for  so  short  a  time  ?  Are  you 
any  good  to  yourself? 

THE  ELDERLY   GENTLEMAN    Istupeut]    Well,   upon   my 

soul! 

zoo.  It  is  a  very  little  soul.  You  only  encourage 
the  sin  of  pride  in  us,  and  keep  us  looking  down  at  you 
instead  of  up  to  something  higher  than  ourselves. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.      Is  not  that  a  Selfish  VieW, 

madam?    Think  of  the  good  you  do  us  by  your  oracular 
counsels ! 

zoo.  What  good  have  our  counsels  ever  done  you? 
You  come  to  us  for  advice  when  you  know  you  are  in 
difficulties.  But  you  never  know  you  are  in  difficulties 
until  twenty  years  after  you  have  made  the  mistakes 
that  led  to  them;  and  then  it  is  too  late.  You  cannot 
understand  our  advice:  you  often  do  more  mischief  by 
trying  to  act  on  it  than  if  you  had  been  left  to  your 
own  childish  devices.  If  you  were  not  childish  you 
would  not  come  to  us  at  all :  you  would  learn  from  expe- 
rience that  your  consultations  of  the  oracle  are  never 
of  any  real  help  to  you.  You  draw  wonderful  imag- 
inary pictures  of  us,  and  write  fictitious  tales  and  poems 
about  our  beneficent  operations  in  the  past,  our  wisdom, 
our  justice,  our  mercy:  stories  in  which  we  often  ap- 
pear as  sentimental  dupes  of  your  prayers  and  sacri- 
fices; but  you  do  it  only  to  conceal  from  yourselves 
the  truth  that  you  are  incapable  of  being  helped  by  us. 
Your  Prime  Minister  pretends  that  he  has  come  to  be 
guided  by  the  oracle ;  but  we  are  not  deceived :  we  know 
quite  well  that  he  has  come  here  so  that  when  he  goes 
back  he  may  have  the  authority  and  dignity  of  one  who 
has  visited  the  holy  islands  and  spoken  face  to  face  with 
the  ineffable  ones.  He  will  pretend  that  all  the  meas- 
ures he  wishes  to  take  for  his  own  purposes  have  been 
enjoined  on  him  by  the  oracle. 


194    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.      But  JOU  forget  that  the 

answers  of  the  oracle  cannot  be  kept  secret  or  misrepre- 
sented. They  are  written  and  promulgated.  The 
Leader  of  the  Opposition  can  obtain  copies.  All  the 
nations  know  them.  Secret  diplomacy  has  been  totally 
abolished. 

zoo.  Yes:  you  publish  documents;  but  they  are 
garbled  or  forged.  And  even  if  you  published  our  real 
answers  it  would  make  no  difference,  because  the  short- 
lived cannot  interpret  the  plainest  writings.  Your  scrip- 
tures command  you  in  the  plainest  terms  to  do  exactly 
the  contrary  of  everything  your  own  laws  and  chosen 
rulers  command  and  execute.  You  cannot  defy  Nature. 
It  is  a  law  of  Nature  that  there  is  a  fixed  relation  be- 
tween conduct  and  length  of  life. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  I  havc  never  heard  of  any 
such  law,  madam. 

zoo.    Well,  you  are  hearing  of  it  now. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Let  me  tell  you  that  we 
shortlivers,  as  you  call  us,  have  lengthened  our  lives  very 
considerably. 

zoo.    How? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  By  saving  time.  By  en- 
abling men  to  cross  the  ocean  in  an  afternoon,  and  to  see 
and  to  speak  to  one  another  when  they  are  thousands  of 
miles  apart.  We  hope  shortly  to  orgaize  their  labor, 
and  press  natural  forces  into  their  service,  so  scientifi- 
cally that  the  burden  of  labor  will  cease  to  be  perceptible, 
leaving  common  men  more  leisure  than  they  will  know 
what  to  do  with. 

zoo.  Daddy :  the  man  whose  life  is  lengthened  in  this 
way  may  be  busier  than  a  savage ;  but  the  difference  be- 
tween such  men  living  seventy  years  and  those  living 
three  hundred  would  be  all  the  greater ;  for  to  a  short- 
liver  increase  of  years  is  only  increase  of  sorrow ;  but  to 


Act  I     Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      195 

a  longliver  every  extra  year  is  a  prospect  which  forces 
him  to  stretch  his  faculties  to  the  utmost  to  face  it. 
Therefore  I  say  that  we  who  live  three  hundred  years 
can  be  of  no  use  to  you  who  live  less  than  a  hundred, 
and  that  our  true  destiny  is  not  to  advise  and  govern 
you,  but  to  supplant  and  supersede  you.  In  that  faith 
I  now  declare  myself  a  Colonizer  and  an  Exterminator. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Oh,  steady!  steady! 
Pray !  pray !  Reflect,  I  implore  you.  It  is  possible  to 
colonize  without  exterminating  the  natives.  Would 
you  treat  us  less  mercifully  than  our  barbarous  fore- 
fathers treated  the  Redskin  and  the  Negro.?  Are  we 
not,  as  Britons,  entitled  at  least  to  some  reservations  ? 

zoo.  What  is  the  use  of  prolonging  the  agony.?  You 
would  perish  slowly  in  our  presence,  no  matter  what  we 
did  to  preserve  you.  You  were  almost  dead  when  I  took 
charge  of  you  today,  merely  because  you  had  talked  for 
a  few  minutes  to  a  secondary.  Besides,  we  have  our  own 
experience  to  go  upon.  Have  you  never  heard  that  our 
children  occasionally  revert  to  the  ancestral  type,  and 
are  born  shortlived? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [eagerlt/l  Never.  I  hope 
you  will  not  be  offended  if  I  say  that  it  would  be  a  great 
comfort  to  me  if  I  could  be  placed  in  charge  of  one  of 
those  normal  individuals. 

zoo.  Abnormal,  you  mean.  What  you  ask  is  im- 
possible :  we  weed  them  all  out. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  When  you  say  that  you 
weed  them  out,  you  send  a  cold  shiver  down  my  spine.  I 
hope  you  dont  mean  that  you — that  you — that  you  as- 
sist Nature  in  any  way.? 

zoo.  Why  not.?  Have  you  not  heard  the  saying  of 
the  Chinese  sage  Dee  Ning,  that  a  good  garden  needs 
weeding?  But  it  is  not  necessary  for  us  to  interfere. 
We  are  naturally  rather  particular  as  to  the  conditions 


196    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

on  which  we  consent  to  live.  One  does  not  mind  the  acci- 
dental loss  of  an  arm  or  a  leg  or  an  eye :  after  all,  no 
one  with  two  legs  is  unhappy  because  he  has  not  three; 
so  why  should  a  man  with  one  be  unhappy  because  he  has 
not  two?  But  infirmities  of  mind  and  temper  are  quite 
another  matter.  If  one  of  us  has  no  self-control,  or  is 
too  weak  to  bear  the  strain  of  our  truthful  life  without 
wincing,  or  is  tormented  by  depraved  appetites  and 
superstitions,  or  is  unable  to  keep  free  from  pain  and 
depression,  he  naturally  becomes  discouraged,  and  re- 
fuses to  live. 

THE    ELDERLY    GENTLEMAN.       Good    Lord !       Cuts    his 

throat,  do  you  mean? 

zoo.  No:  why  should  he  cut  his  throat?  He  simply 
dies.  He  wants  to.  He  is  out  of  countenance,  as  we 
call  it. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.     Well !   !   !     But  SUppOSe  he 

is  depraved  enough  not  to  want  to  die,  and  to  settle  the 
difficulty  by  killing  all  the  rest  of  you? 

zoo.  Oh,  he  is  one  of  the  thoroughly  degenerate  short- 
livers  whom  we  occasionally  produce.     He  emigrates. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  And  what  bccomes  of  him 
then? 

zoo.  You  shortlived  people  always  think  very  highly 
of  him.    You  accept  him  as  what  you  call  a  great  man. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  You  astonish  me;  and 
yet  I  must  admit  that  what  you  tell  me  accounts  for  a 
great  deal  of  the  little  I  know  of  the  private  life  of  our 
great  men.  We  must  be  very  convenient  to  you  as  a 
dumping  place  for  your  failures. 

zoo.    I  admit  that. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Good.  Then  if  you  carTj 
out  your  plan  of  colonization,  and  leave  no  shortlived 
countries  in  the  world,  what  will  you  do  with  your  un- 
desirables ? 


Act  I     Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      197 

zoo.  Kill  them.  Our  tertiaries  are  not  at  all  squeam- 
ish about  killing. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.      GracioUS  PowerS  ! 

zoo  [glancing  up  at  the  sun^  Come.  It  is  just  six- 
teen o'clock;  and  you  have  to  join  your  party  at  half- 
past  in  the  temple  in  Galway. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  \_rising^  Galway !  Shall  I 
at  last  be  able  to  boast  of  having  seen  that  magnificent 
city? 

zoo.  You  will  be  disappointed:  we  have  no  cities. 
There  is  a  temple  of  the  oracle :  that  is  all. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Alas !  and  I  Came  here  to 
fulfil  two  long-cherished  dreams.  One  was  to  see  Gal- 
way. It  has  been  said,  "See  Galway  and  die."  The 
other  was  to  contemplate  the  ruins  of  London. 

zoo.  Ruins!  We  do  not  tolerate  ruins.  Was  Lon- 
don a  place  of  any  importance? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [amazed^  What !  London ! 
It  was  the  mightiest  city  of  antiquity.  [^Rhetorically'] 
Situate  just  where  the  Dover  Road  crosses  the  Thames, 
it- 
zoo  [curtly  interrupting]  There  is  nothing  there  now. 
Why  should  anybody  pitch  on  such  a  spot  to  live?  The 
nearest  houses  are  at  a  place  called  Strand-on-the- 
Green:  it  is  very  old.  Come.  We  shall  go  across  the 
water.     [She  goes  down  the  steps], 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.    Sic  transit  glorla  muudi ! 

zoo  [from  below]  What  did  you  say? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [despairingly]  Nothing. 
You  would  not  understand.      [He  goes  down  the  steps] . 


ACT  II 

A  courtyard  before  the  columned  portico  of  a  temple. 
The  temple  door  is  in  the  middle  of  the  portico,  A  veil- 
ed and  robed  woman  of  majestic  carriage  passes  along 
behind  the  columns  towards  the  entrance.  From  the 
opposite  direction  a  man  of  compact  figure,  clean-shaven, 
saturnine,  and  self -centered,  in  short,  very  like  Napoleon 
I,  and  wearing  a  military  uniform  of  Napoleonic  cut, 
marches  with  measured  steps;  places  his  hand  in  his 
lapel  in  the  traditional  manner;  and  fixes  the  womarb 
with  his  eye.  She  stops,  her  attitude  expressing  haughty 
amazement  at  his  audacity.  He  is  on  her  right:  she  on 
his  left. 

NAPOLEON  [impressively]  I  am  the  Man  of  Destiny. 

THE  VEILED  WOMAN  [unimpresscd]  How  did  you  get 
in  here? 

NAPOLEON.  I  walked  in.  I  go  on  until  I  am  stopped. 
I  never  am  stopped.  I  tell  you  I  am  the  Man  of 
Destiny. 

THE  VEILED  WOMAN.  You  will  be  a  man  of  very  short 
destiny  if  you  wander  about  here  without  one  of  our 
children  to  guide  you.  I  suppose  you  belong  to  the 
Baghdad  envoy. 

NAPOLEON.  I  came  with  him ;  but  I  do  not  belong  to 
199 


200    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

him.  I  belong  to  myself.  Direct  me  to  the  oracle  if  you 
can.    If  not,  do  not  waste  my  time. 

THE  VEILED  WOMAN.  Your  time,  poor  creature,  is 
short.  I  will  not  waste  it.  Your  envoy  and  his  party 
will  be  here  presently.  The  consultation  of  the  oracle 
is  arranged  for  them,  and  will  take  place  according  to 
the  prescribed  ritual.  You  can  wait  here  until  they 
come  [she  turns  to  go  into  the  temple^ . 

NAPOLEON.  I  never  wait.  [She  stops^.  The  prescribed 
ritual  is,  I  believe,  the  classical  one  of  the  pythoness 
on  her  tripod,  the  intoxicating  fumes  arising  from  the 
abyss,  the  convulsions  of  the  prieste&s  as  she  delivers  the 
message  of  the  God,  and  so  on.  That  sort  of  thing 
does  not  impose  on  me:  I  use  it  myself  to  impose  on 
simpletons.  I  believe  that  what  is,  is.  I  know  that  what 
is  not,  is  not.  The  ahtics  of  a  woman  sitting  on  a  tripod 
and  pretending  to  be  drunk  do  not  interest  me.  Her 
words  are  put  into  her  mouth,  not  by  a  god,  but  by  a 
man  three  hundred  years  old,  who  has  had  the  capacity 
to  profit  by  his  experience.  I  wish  to  speak  to  that  man 
face  to  face,  without  mummery  or  imposture. 

THE  VEILED  WOMAN.  You  Seem  to  be  an  unusually 
sensible  person.  But  there  is  no  old  man.  I  am  the 
oracle  on  duty  today,  I  am  on  my  way  now  to  take  my 
place  on  the  tripod,  and  go  through  the  usual  mum- 
mery, as  you  rightly  call  it,  to  impress  your  friend  the 
envoy.  As  you  are  superior  to  that  kind  of  thing,  you 
may  consult  me  now.  [She  leads  the  way  into  the  middle 
of  the  courtyard].    What  do  you  want  to  know? 

NAPOLEON  [follozving  her~\  Madam:  I  have  not  come 
all  this  way  to  discuss  matters  of  State  with  a  woman. 
I  must  ask  you  to  direct  me  to  one  of  your  oldest  and 
ablest  men. 

THE  ORACLE.  None  of  our  oldest  and  ablest  men  or 
women  would  dream  of  wasting  their  time  on  you.     You 


Act  II    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      201 

would  die  of  discouragement  in  their  presence  in  less 
than  three  hours. 

NAPOLEON.  You  Can  keep  this  idle  fable  of  dis- 
couragement for  people  credulous  enough  to  be  intimi- 
dated by  it,  madam.  I  do  not  believe  in  metaphysical 
forces. 

THE  ORACLE.  No  One  asks  you  to.  A  field  is  some- 
thing physical,  is  it  not.    Well,  I  have  a  field. 

NAPOLEON.  I  have  several  million  fields.  I  am  Em- 
peror of  Turania. 

THE  ORACLE.  You  do  not  Understand.  I  am  not 
speaking  of  an  agricultural  field.  Do  you  not  know 
that  every  mass  of  matter  in  motion  carries  with  it  an 
invisible  gravitational  field,  every  magnet  an  invisible 
magnetic  field,  and  every  living  organism  a  mesmeric 
field?  Even  you  have  a  perceptible  mesmeric  field. 
Feeble  as  it  is,  it  is  the  strongest  I  have  yet  observed  in 
a  shortliver. 

NAPOLEON.  By  no  means  feeble,  madam.  I  under- 
stand you  now;  and  I  may  tell  you  that  the  strongest 
characters  blench  in  my  presence,  and  submit  to  my 
domination.     But  I  do  not  call  that  a  physical  force. 

THE  ORACLE.  What  else  do  you  call  it,  pray?  Our 
physicists  deal  with  it.  Our  mathematicians  express  its 
measurements  in  algebraic  equations. 

NAPOLEON.  Do  you  mean  that  they  could  measure 
mine  ? 

THE  ORACLE.  Yes  I  by  a  figure  infinitely  near  to  zero. 
Even  in  us  the  force  is  negligible  during  our  first  century 
of  life.  In  our  second  century  it  develops  quickly,  and 
becomes  dangerous  to  shortlivers  who  venture  into  its 
field.  If  I  were  not  veiled  and  robed  in  insulating  ma- 
terial you  could  not  endure  my  presence;  and  I  am  still 
a  young  woman :  one  hundred  and  seventy  if  you  wish  to 
know  exactly. 


202    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

NAPOLEON  [folding  his  arms~\  I  am  not  intimidated: 
no  woman  alive,  old  or  young,  can  put  me  out  of  coun- 
tenance. Unveil,  madam.  Disrobe.  You  will  move  this 
temple  as  easily  as  shake  me. 

THE  ORACLE.     Very  well  \_she  throws  back  her  veil], 

NAPOLEON  \_shriekingj  staggering^  and  covering  his 
eyes^  No.  Stop.  Hide  your  face  again.  [Shutting  his 
eyes  and  distractedly  clutching  at  his  throat  and  hearty 
Let  me  go.     Help !    I  am  dying. 

THE  ORACLE.  Do  you  still  wish  to  consult  an  older 
person.? 

NAPOLEON.     No,  no.    The  veil,  the  veil,  I  beg  you. 

THE  ORACLE  [replacing  the  veil]  So. 

NAPOLEON.  Ouf!  One  cannot  always  be  at  one's 
best.  Twice  before  in  my  life  I  have  lost  my  nerve  and 
behaved  like  a  poltroon.  But  I  warn  you  not  to  judge 
my  quality  by  these  involuntary  moments. 

THE  ORACLE.  I  have  no  occasion  to  judge  of  your 
quality.  You  want  my  advice.  Speak  quickly;  or  I 
shall  go  about  my  business. 

NAPOLEON  [after  a  moment*s  hesitation,  sinks  re- 
spectfully on  one  knee]  I — 

THP  ORACLE.  Oh,  risc,  rise.  Are  you  so  foolish  as 
to  offer  me  this  mummery  which  even  you  despise? 

NAPOLEON  [risingl  I  knelt  in  spite  of  myself.  I  com- 
pliment you  on  your  impressiveness,  madam. 

THE  ORACLE  [impatiently']  Time!  time!  time!  time! 

NAPOLEON.  You  will  not  grudge  me  the  necessary 
time,  madam,  when  you  know  my  case.  I  am  a  man 
gifted  with  a  certain  specific  talent  in  a  degree  alto- 
gether extraordinary.  I  am  not  otherwise  a  very 
extraordinary  person :  my  family  is  not  influential ;  and 
without  this  talent  I  should  cut  no  particular  figure  in 
the  world. 

THE  ORACLE.     W^hy  cut  a  figure  in  the  world? 


Act  II    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      203 

NAPOLEON.  Superiority  will  make  itself  felt,  madam. 
But  when  I  say  I  possess  this  talent  I  do  not  express 
myself  accurately.  The  truth  is  that  my  talent  pos- 
sesses me.  It  is  genius.  It  drives  me  to  exercise  it.  I 
must  exercise  it.  I  am  great  when  I  exercise  it.  At 
other  moments  I  am  nobody. 

THE  ORACLE.  Well,  exercisc  it.  Do  you  need  an 
oracle  to  tell  you  that  ? 

NAPOLEON.  Wait.  This  talent  involves  the  shedding 
of  human  blood. 

THP  ORACLE..     Are  you  a  surgeon,  or  a  dentist.? 

NAPOLEON.  Psha!  You  do  not  appreciate  me, 
madam.  I  mean  the  shedding  of  oceans  of  blood,  the 
death  of  millions  of  men. 

THE  ORACLE.    They  object,  I  suppose. 

NAPOLEON.     Not  at  all.    They  adore  me. 

THE  ORACLE.     Indeed ! 

NAPOLEON.  I  have  never  shed  blood  with  my  own 
hand.  They  kill  each  other:  they  die  with  shouts  of 
triumph  on  their  lips.  Those  who  die  cursing  do  not 
curse  me.  My  talent  is  to  organize  this  slaughter;  to 
give  mankind  this  terrible  j  oy  which  they  call  glory ;  to 
let  loose  the  devil  in  them  that  peace  has  bound  in  chains. 

THE  ORACLE.     And  you ?    Do  you  share  their  joy.'* 

NAPOLEON.  Not  at  all.  What  satisfaction  is  it  to 
me  to  see  one  fool  pierce  the  entrails  of  another  with  a 
bayonet.''  I  am  a  man  of  princely  character,  but  of 
simple  personal  tastes  and  habits.  I  have  the  virtues  of 
a  laborer:  industry  and  indifference  to  personal  com- 
fort. But  I  must  rule,  because  I  am  so  superior  to  other 
men  that  it  is  intolerable  to  me  to  be  misruled  by  them. 
Yet  only  as  a  slayer  can  I  become  a  ruler.  I  cannot  be 
great  as  a  writer:  I  have  tried  and  failed.  I  have  no 
talent  as  a  sculptor  or  painter ;  and  as  lawyer,  preacher, 
doctor,  or  actor,  scores  of  second-rate  men  can  do  as 


204    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

well  as  I,  or  better.  I  am  not  even  a  diplomatist :  I  can 
only  play  my  trump  card  of  force.  What  I  can  do  is  to 
organize  war.  Look  at  me!  I  seem  a  man  like  other 
men,  because  nine-tenths  of  me  is  common  humanity. 
But  the  other  tenth  is  a  faculty  for  seeing  things  as 
they  are  that  no  other  man  possesses. 

THE  ORACLE.  You  mean  that  you  have  no  imag- 
ination ? 

NAPOLEON  [forcibly~\  I  mean  that  I  have  the  only 
imagination  worth  having:  the  power  of  imagining 
things  as  they  are,  even  when  I  cannot  see  them.  You 
feel  yourself  my  superior,  I  know:  nay,  you  are  my 
superior:  have  I  not  bowed  my  knee  to  you  by  instinct? 
Yet  I  challenge  you  to  a  test  of  our  respective  powers. 
Can  you  calculate  what  the  mathematicians  call 
vectors,  without  putting  a  single  algebraic  symbol  on 
paper.?  Can  you  launch  ten  thousand  men  across  a 
frontier  and  a  chain  of  mountains  and  know  to  a  mile 
exactly  where  they  will  be  at  the  end  of  seven  weeks? 
The  rest  is  nothing:  I  got  it  all  from  the  books  at  my 
military  school.  Now  this  great  game  of  war,  this  play- 
ing with  armies  as  other  men  play  with  bowls  and 
skittles,  is  one  which  I  must  go  on  playing,  partly  be- 
cause a  man  must  do  what  he  can  and  not  what  he 
would  like  to  do,  and  partly  because,  if  I  stop,  I 
immediately  lose  my  power  and  become  a  beggar  in  the 
land  where  I  now  make  men  drunk  with  glory. 

THE  ORACLE.  No  doubt  then  you  wish  to  know  how 
to  extricate  yourself  from  this  unfortunate  position? 

NAPOLEON.  It  is  not  generally  considered  unfor- 
tunate, madam.     Supremely  fortunate  rather. 

THE  ORACLE.  If  you  think  so,  go  on  making  them 
drunk  with  glory.  Why  trouble  me  with  their  folly  and 
your  vectors  ? 

NAPOLEON.     Unluckily,    madam,   men   are    not   only 


Act  II    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      205 

heroes :  they  are  also  cowards.  They  desire  glory ;  but 
they  dread  death. 

THE  OEACLE.  Why  should  they?  Their  lives  are  too 
short  to  be  worth  living.  That  is  why  they  think  your 
game  of  war  worth  playing. 

NAPOLEON.  They  do  not  look  at  it  quite  in  that  way. 
The  most  worthless  soldier  wants  to  live  for  ever.  To 
make  him  risk  being  killed  by  the  enemy  I  have  to  con- 
vince him  that  if  he  hesitates  he  will  inevitably  be  shot 
at  dawn  by  his  own  comrades  for  cowardice. 

THE  ORACLE.  And  if  his  comrades  refuse  to  shoot 
him  ? 

NAPOLEON.     They  will  be  shot  too,  of  course. 

THE  ORACLE.     By  whom  ? 

NAPOLEON.     By  their  comrades. 

THE  ORACLE.     And  if  they  refuse? 

NAPOLEON.     Up  to  a  certain  point  they  do  not  refuse. 

THE  ORACLE.  But  when  that  point  is  reached,  you 
have  to  do  the  shooting  yourself,  eh? 

NAPOLEON.  Unfortunately,  madam,  when  that  point 
is  reached,  they  shoot  me. 

THE  ORACLE.  Mf !  It  sccms  to  me  they  might  as  well 
shoot  you  first  as  last.    Why  dont  they  ? 

NAPOLEON.  Because  their  love  of  fighting,  their  de- 
sire for  glory,  their  shame  of  being  branded  as  dastards, 
their  instinct  to  test  themselves  in  terrible  trials,  their 
fear  of  being  killed  or  enslaved  by  the  enemy,  their 
belief  that  they  are  defending  their  hearths  and  homes, 
overcome  their  natural  cowardice,  and  make  them  willing 
not  only  to  risk  their  own  lives  but  to  kill  everyone  who 
refuses  to  take  that  risk.  But  if  war  continues  too  long, 
there  comes  a  time  when  the  soldiers,  and  also  the  tax- 
payers who  are  supporting  and  munitioning  them,  reach 
a  condition  which  they  describe  as  being  fed  up.  The 
troops  have  proved  their  courage,  and  want  to  go  home 


206     Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

and  enjoy  in  peace  the  glory  it  has  earned  them.  Be- 
sides, the  risk  of  death  for  each  soldier  becomes  a  cer- 
tainty if  the  fighting  goes  on  for  ever:  he  hopes  to 
escape  for  six  months,  but  knows  he  cannot  escape  for 
six  years.  The  risk  of  bankruptcy  for  the  citizen  be- 
comes a  certainty  in  the  same  way.  Now  what  does  this 
mean  for  me? 

THE  ORACLE.  Does  that  matter  in  the  midst  of  such 
calamity  ? 

NAPOLEON.  Psha!  madam:  it  is  the  only  thing  that 
matters:  the  value  of  human  life  is  the  value  of  the 
greatest  living  man.  Cut  off  that  infinitesimal  layer  of 
grey  matter  which  distinguishes  my  brain  from  that  of 
the  common  man,  and  you  cut  down  the  stature  of 
humanity  from  that  of  a  giant  to  that  of  a  nobody.  I 
matter  supremely:  my  soldiers  do  not  matter  at  all: 
there  are  plenty  more  where  they  came  from.  If  you  kill 
me,  or  put  a  stop  to  my  activity  (it  is  the  same  thing), 
the  nobler  part  of  human  life  perisihes.  You  must  save 
the  world  from  that  catastrophe,  madam.  War  has 
made  me  popular,  powerful,  famous,  historically  im- 
mortal. But  I  foresee  that  if  I  go  on  to  the  end  it  will 
leave  me  execrated,  dethroned,  imprisoned,  perhaps 
executed.  Yet  if  I  stop  fighting  I  commit  suicide  as  a 
great  man  and  become  a  common  one.  How  am  I  to 
escape  the  horns  of  this  tragic  dilemma?  Victory  I  can 
guarantee:  I  am  invincible.  But  the  cost  of  victory  is 
the  demoralization,  the  depopulation,  the  ruin  of  the 
victors  no  less  than  of  the  vanquished.  How  am  I  to 
satisfy  my  genius  by  fighting  until  I  die?  that  is  my 
question  to  you. 

THE  ORACLE.  Were  you  not  rash  to  venture  into 
these  sacred  islands  with  such  a  question  on  your  lips? 
Warriors  are  not  popular  here,  my  friend. 

NAPOLEON.     If  a  soldier  were  restrained  by  such  a 


Act  II    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      207 

consideration,  madam,  he  would  no  longer  be  a  soldier. 
Besides,  [he  'produces  a  pistol]  I  have  not  come  unarmed. 

THE  ORACLE.     What  is  that  thing? 

NAPOLEON,  It  is  an  instrument  of  my  profession, 
madam.  I  raise  this  hammer ;  I  point  the  barrel  at  you ; 
I  pull  this  trigger  that  is  against  my  forefinger;  and 
you  fall  dead. 

THE  ORACLE.  Shew  it  to  me  \^she  puts  out  her  hand 
to  take  it  from  hirn] . 

NAPOLEON  [retreating  a  step]  Pardon  me,  madam. 
I  never  trust  my  life  in  the  hands  of  a  person  over  whom 
I  have  no  control. 

-  THE  ORACLE  [stemly]  Give  it  to  me  [she  raises  her 
hand  to  her  veil], 

NAPOLEON  [dropping  the  pistol  and  covering  his 
eyes]  Quarter!  Kamerad!  Take  it,  madam  [he  kicks 
it  towards  her]  :  I  surrender. 

THE  ORACLE.  Give  me  that  thing.  Do  you  expect 
me  to  stoop  for  it.f* 

NAPOLEON  [taking  his  hands  from  his  eyes  with  an 
effort]  A  poor  victory,  madam  [he  picks  up  the  pistol 
and  hands  it  to  her]  :  there  was  no  vector  strategy 
needed  to  win  it.  [Making  a  post  of  his  humiliation^ 
But  enj  oy  your  triumph :  you  have  made  me — ME !  Cain 
Adamson  Charles  Napoleon!  Emperor  of  Turania!  ciy 
for  quarter. 

THE  ORACLE.  The  Way  out  of  your  difficulty,  Cain 
Adamson,  is  very  simple. 

NAPOLEON  [eagerly]  Good.    What  is  it.? 

THE  ORACLE.  To  die  before  the  tide  of  glory  turns. 
Allow  me  [she  shoots  hiTri], 

He  falls  with  a  shriek.  She  throws  the  pistol  away 
and  goes  haughtily  into  the  temple, 

NAPOLEON  [scrambling  to  his  feet]  Murderess! 
Monster !   She-devil !   Unnatural,  inhuman  wretch !  You 


208    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman   Part  IV 

deserve  to  be  hanged,  guillotined,  broken  on  the  wheel, 
burnt  alive.  No  sense  of  the  sacredness  of  human  life! 
No  thought  for  my  wife  and  children!  Bitch!  Sow! 
Wanton !  [He  picks  up  the  pistol] .  And  missed  me  at 
five  yards !    Thats  a  woman  all  over. 

He  is  going  away  whence  he  came  when  Zoo  arrives 
and  confronts  him  at  the  head  of  a  party  consisting  of 
the  British  Envoy,  the  Elderly  Gentleman,  the  Envoy's 
wife,  and  her  daughter,  aged  about  eighteen.  The 
Envoy,  a  typical  politician,  looks  like  an  imperfectly 
reformed  criminal  disguised  by  a  good  tailor.  The  dress 
of  the  ladies  is  coeval  with  that  of  the  Elderly  Gentle- 
man, and  suitable  for  public  official  ceremonies  in 
western  capitals  at  the  XVIIl-XIX  fin  de  siecle. 

They  file  in  under  the  portico.  Zoo  immediately 
comes  out  imperiously  to  Napoleon* s  right,  whilst  the 
Envoy's  wife  hurries  effusively  to  his  left.  The  Envoy 
meanwhile  passes  along  behind  the  columns  to  the  door, 
followed  by  his  daughter.  The  Elderly  Gentleman  stops 
just  where  he  entered,  to  see  why  Zoo  has  swooped  so 
abruptly  on  the  Emperor  of  Turania. 

zoo  [  to  Napoleon,  severely]  What  are  you  doing  here 
by  yourself?  You  have  no  business  to  go  about  here 
alone.  What  was  that  noise  just  now?  What  is  that  in 
your  hand? 

Napoleon  glares  at  her  in  speechless  fury;  pockets 
the  pistol;  and  produces  a  whistle. 

THE  envoy's  wife.  Amt  you  coming  with  us  to  the 
oracle,  sire? 

NAPOLEON.  To  hell  with  the  oracle,  and  with  you 
too  [he  turns  to  go]  ! 

r  1    oh    sire '  ' 

THE  envoy's  wife    .'     ^  .       .,  !     „    ' 

1  [together]  }  Where  are  you  go- 
^oo  I  J        ing? 

NAPOLEON.     To  fetch  the  police.     [He  goes  out  past 


Act  II    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      209 

ZoOy  almost  jostling  her,  and  blowing  piercing  blasts  on 
his  whistle^. 

zoo  [whipping  out  her  tuning-fork  and  intoning] 
Hallo  Galway  Central.  [The  whistling  continues]. 
Stand  by  to  isolate.  [To  the  Elderly  Gentleman,  who  is 
staring  after  the  whistling  Emperor]  How  far  has  he 
gone? 

THE    ELDERLY   GENTLEMAN.       To    that    CUrioUS    statue 

of  a  fat  old  man. 

zoo  [quickly,  intoning]  Isolate  the  Falstaff  monu- 
ment isolate  hard.  Paralyze — [the  whistling  stops]. 
Thank  you.  [She  puts  up  her  tuning  fork] .  He  shall 
not  move  a  muscle  until  I  come  to  fetch  him. 

THE  envoy's  WIFE.  Oh !  he  will  be  frightfully  angry ! 
Did  you  hear  what  he  said  to  me? 

zoo.     Much  we  care  for  his  anger! 

THE  DAUGHTER  [coming  forward  between  her  mother 
and  Zoo].  Please,  madam,  whose  statue  is  it.?  and  where 
can  I  buy  a  picture  postcard  of  it.^*  It  is  so  funny.  I 
will  take  a  snapshot  when  we  are  coming  back ;  but  they 
come  out  so  badly  sometimes. 

zoo.  They  will  give  you  pictures  and  toys  in  the 
temple  to  take  away  with  you.  The  story  of  the  statue 
is  too  long.  It  would  bore  you  [she  goes  past  them 
across  the  courtyard  to  get  rid  of  them], 

THE  WIFE  [gushing]  Oh  no,  I  assure  you. 

THE  DAUGHTER  [copying  her  mother]  We  should  be 
so  interested. 

zoo.  Nonsense!  All  I  can  tell  you  about  it  is  that  a 
thousand  years  ago,  when  the  whole  world  was  given 
over  to  you  shortlived  people,  there  was  a  war  called  the 
War  to  End  War.  In  the  war  which  followed  it  about 
ten  years  later,  none  of  the  soldiers  were  killed;  but 
seven  of  the  capital  cities  of  Europe  were  wiped  out  of 
existence.     It  seems  to  have  been  a  great  joke;  for  the 


210    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

statesmen  who  thought  they  had  sent  ten  million  com- 
mon men  to  their  deaths  were  themselves  blown  into 
fragments  with  their  houses  and  families,  while  the  ten 
million  men  lay  snugly  in  the  caves  they  had  dug  for 
themselves.  Later  on  even  the  houses  escaped ;  but  their 
inhabitants  were  poisoned  by  gas  that  spared  no  living 
soul.  Of  course  the  soldiers  starved  and  ran  wild;  and 
that  was  the  end  of  pseudo-Christian  civilization.  The 
last  civilized  thing  that  happened  was  that  the  states- 
men discovered  that  cowardice  was  a  great  patriotic 
virtue;  and  a  public  monument  was  erected  to  its  first 
preacher,  an  ancient  and  very  fat  sage  called  Sir  John 
Falstaff.    Well  [pointing'] ,  thats  FalstafF. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN    [cOmiug  fvom   the  pOrttCO 

to  his  granddaughter's  right]  Great  Heavens !  And  at 
the  base  of  this  monstrous  poltroon's  statue  the  War 
God  of  Turania  is  now  gibbering  impotently. 

zoo.     Serve  him  right !    War  God  indeed ! 

THE  ENVOY  [coming  between  his  wife  and  Zoo]  I  dont 
know  any  history:  a  modern  Prime  Minister  has  some- 
thing better  to  do  than  sit  reading  books ;  but — 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [interrupting  him  en- 
couragingly] You  make  history,  Ambrose. 

THE  ENVOY.  Well,  perhaps  I  do;  and  perhaps  his- 
tory makes  me.  I  hardly  recognize  myself  in  the  news- 
papers sometimes,  though  I  suppose  leading  articles  are 
the  materials  of  history,  as  you  might  say.  But  what 
I  want  to  know  is,  how  did  war  come  back  again?  and 
how  did  the}'  make  those  poisonous  gases  you  speak  of? 
We  should  be  glad  to  know ;  for  they  might  come  in  very 
handy  if  we  have  to  fight  Turania.  Of  course  I  am  all 
for  peace,  and  dont  hold  with  the  race  of  armaments  in 
principle ;  still,  we  must  keep  ahead  or  be  wiped  out. 

zoo  You  can  make  the  gases  for  yourselves  when 
your  chemists  find  out  how.     Then  you  will  do  is  you 


Act  II    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      211 

did  before :  poison  each  other  until  there  are  no  chemists 
left,  and  no  civilization.  You  will  then  begin  all  over 
again  as  half-starved  ignorant  savages,  and  fight  with 
boomerangs  and  poisoned  arrows  until  you  work  up  to 
the  poison  gases  and  high  explosives  once  more,  with 
the  same  result.  That  is,  unless  we  have  sense  enough 
to  make  an  end  of  this  ridiculous  game  by  destroying 
you, 

THE  ENVOY  [dghast^  Destroying  us ! 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.       I  told  JOU,  AmbrOSC.      I 

warned  you. 

THE  ENVOY.       But 

zoo  [impatiently^  I  wonder  what  Zozim  is  doing.  He 
ought  to  be  here  to  receive  you. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Do  you  mean  that  rather 
insufferable  young  man  whom  you  found  boring  me  on 
the  pier? 

zoo.  Yes.  He  has  to  dress-up  in  a  Druids'  robe,  and 
put  on  a  wig  and  a  long  false  beard,  to  impress  you 
silly  people.  /  have  to  put  on  a  purple  mantle.  I  have 
no  patience  with  such  mummery ;  but  you  expect  it  from 
us ;  so  I  suppose  it  must  be  kept  up.  Will  you  wait  here 
until  Zozim  comes,  please  [she  turns  to  enter  the 
temple] . 

THE  ENVOY.  My  good  lady,  is  it  worth  while  dress- 
ing-up  and  putting  on  false  beards  for  us  if  you  tell  us 
beforehand  that  it  is  all  humbug.? 

zoo.  One  would  not  think  so;  but  if  you  wont  be- 
lieve in  anyone  who  is  not  dressed-up,  why,  we  must 
dress-up  for  you.  It  was  you  who  invented  aU  this  non- 
sense, not  we. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.       But  do  yoU  CXpect  US  tO 

be  impressed,  after  this? 

zoo.  I  dont  expect  anything..  I  know,  as  a  matter 
of  experience,  that  you  will  be  impressed.     The  oracle 


212    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

wiU  frighten  you  out  of  your  wits.  iShe  goes  into  the 
temple^ . 

THE  WIFE.  These  people  treat  us  as  if  we  were  dirt 
beneath  their  feet.  I  wonder  at  you  putting  up  with  it, 
Amby.  It  would  serve  them  rig'ht  if  we  went  home  at 
once :  wouldnt  it,  Eth  ? 

THE  DAUGHTER.  Yes,  mamma.  But  perhaps  they 
wouldnt  mind. 

THE  ENVOY.  No  use  talking  like  that,  Molly.  Ive 
got  to  see  this  oracle.  The  folks  at  home  wont  know 
how  we  have  been  treated:  all  theyll  know  is  that  Ive 
stood  face  to  face  with  the  oracle  and  had  the  straight 
tip  from  her.  I  hope  this  Zozim  chap  is  not  going  to 
keep  us  waiting  much  longer;  for  I  feel  far  from  com- 
fortable about  the  approaching  interview;  and  thats 
the  honest  truth. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.       I  nCVCr  thougllt  I  sliould 

want  to  see  that  man  again;  but  now  I  wish  he  would 
take  charge  of  us  instead  of  Zoo.  She  was  charming  at 
first:  quite  charming;  but  she  turned  into  a  fiend  be- 
cause I  had  a  few  words  with  her.  You  would  not 
believe :  she  very  nearly  killed  me.  You  heard  what  she 
said  just  now.  She  belongs  to  a  party  here  which  wants 
to  have  us  all  killed. 

THE  WIFE  [terrif,ed~\  Us !  But  we  have  done  nothing: 
we  have  been  as  nice  to  them  as  nice  could  be.  Oh,  Amby, 
come  away,  come  away:  there  is  something  dreadful 
about  this  place  and  these  people. 

THE  ENVOY.  There  is,  and  no  mistake.  But  youre 
safe  with  me:  you  ought  to  have  sense  enough  to  know 
that. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Molly, 
that  it  is  not  merely  us  four  poor  weak  creatures  they 
want  to  kill,  but  the  entire  race  of  Man,  except  them- 
selves. 


Act  II    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      213 

THE  ENVOY.  Not  SO  poor,  neither,  Poppa.  Nor  so 
weak,  if  you  are  going  to  take  in  all  the  Powers.  If  it 
comes  to  killing,  two  can  play  at  that  game,  longlived 
or  shortlived. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  No,  Ambrosc :  we  should 
have  no  chance.  We  are  worms  beside  these  fearful 
people :  mere  worms. 

Zozim  comes  from  the  temple^  robed  majestically^ 
and  wearing  a  wreath  of  mistletoe  in  his  flowing  white 
wig.  His  false  beard  reaches  almost  to  his  waist.  He 
carries  a  staff  with  a  curiously  carved  top. 

ZOZIM  [in  the  doorway,  impressively']  Hail,  strangers ! 

ALL  [reverentlyl^  Hail! 

ZOZIM.     Are  ye  prepared? 

THE  ENVOY.     We  are. 

ZOZIM  [unexpectedly  becoming  conversational,  and 
strolling  down  carelessly  to  the  middle  of  the  group  be- 
tween the  two  ladies]  Well,  I'm  sorry  to  say  the  oracle 
is  not.  She  was  delayed  by  some  member  of  your  party 
who  got  loose ;  and  as  the  show  takes  a  bit  of  arranging, 
you  will  have  to  wait  a  few  minutes.  The  ladies  can  go 
inside  and  look  round  the  entrance  hall  and  get  pictures 
and  things  if  you  want  them. 

THE  WIFE         1  fThankyou.        MThey   go 

\[_together~\\l  should  like  to,}-     into   the 

THEDAITGHTERJ  [^      ^,,y    ^^^^_       J       ^^^^j^^^ 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [in  dignified  rcbuke  of 
Zozim* s  levity]  Taken  in  this  spirit,  sir,  the  show,  as 
you  call  it,  becomes  almost  an  insult  to  our  common 
sense, 

ZOZIM.  Quite,  I  should  say.  You  need  not  keep  it  up 
with  me. 

THE  ENVOY  [suddenly  making  himself  very  agree- 
able] Just  so:  just  so.     We  can  wait  as  long  as  you 


214    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

please.  And  now,  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  seize  the  oppor- 
tunity of  a  few  minutes'  friendly  chat — ? 

zoziM.  By  all  means,  if  only  you  will  talk  about 
things  I  can  understand. 

THE  ENVOY.  Well,  about  this  colonizing  plan  of 
yours.  My  father-in-law  here  has  been  telling  me  some- 
thing about  it;  and  he  has  just  now  let  out  that  you 
want  not  only  to  colonize  us,  but  to — to — to — well, 
shall  we  say  to  supersede  us?  Now  why  supersede  us.? 
Why  not  live  and  let  live.''  Theres  not  a  scrap  of  ill- 
feeling  on  our  side.  We  should  welcome  a  colony  of 
immortals — we  may  almost  call  you  that — in  the  British 
Middle  East.  No  doubt  the  Turanian  Empire,  with  its 
Mahometan  traditions,  overshadows  us  now.  We  have 
had  to  bring  the  Emperor  with  us  on  this  expedition, 
though  of  course  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  he  has 
imposed  himself  on  my  party  just  to  spy  on  me.  I  dont 
deny  that  he  has  the  whip  hand  of  us  to  some  extent, 
because  if  it  came  to  a  war  none  of  our  generals  could 
stand  up  against  him.  I  give  him  best  at  that  game :  he 
is  the  finest  soldier  in  the  world.  Besides,  he  is  an  em- 
peror and  an  autocrat;  and  I  am  only  an  elected  repre- 
sentative of  the  British  democracy.  Not  that  our 
British  democrats  wont  fight:  they  will  fight  the  heads 
off  all  the  Turanians  that  ever  walked ;  but  then  it  takes 
so  long  to  work  them  up  to  it,  while  he  has  only  to  say 
the  word  and  march.  But  you  people  would  never  get 
on  with  him.  Believe  me,  you  would  not  be  as  comfort- 
able in  Turania  as  you  would  be  with  us.  We  under- 
stand you.  We  like  you.  We  are  easy-going  people; 
and  we  are  ridh  people.  That  will  appeal  to  you. 
Turania  Is  a  poor  place  when  all  Is  said.  Flve-eigthths 
of  It  is  desert.  They  dont  irrigate  as  we  do.  Besides — 
now  I  am  sure  this  will  appeal  to  you  and  to  all  right- 
minded  men — ^we  are  Christians. 


Act  II    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      215 

zoziM.     The  old  uns  prefer  Mahometans. 

THE  ENVOY  \_shocked^  What! 

ZOZIM  [distinctly']  They  prefer  Mahometans.  Whats 
wrong  with  that? 

THE  ENVOY.     Well,  of  all  the  disgraceful — 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [diplomatically  interrupt^ 
ing  his  scandalized  son-in-law]  There  can  be  no  doubt, 
I  am  afraid,  that  by  clinging  too  long  to  the  obsolete 
features  of  the  old  pseudo-Christian  Churches  we  allowed 
the  Mahometans  to  get  ahead  of  us  at  a  very  critical 
period  of  the  development  of  the  Eastern  world.  When 
the  Mahometan  Reformation  took  place,  it  left  its  fol- 
lowers with  the  enormous  advantage  of  having  the  only 
established  religion  in  the  world  in  whose  articles  of  faith 
any  intelligent  and  educated  person  could  believe. 

THE  ENVOY.  But  what  about  our  Reformation.? 
Dont  give  the  show  away.  Poppa.  We  followed  suit, 
didnt  we? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Unfortunately,  Am- 
brose, we  could  not  follow  suit  very  rapidly.  We  had 
not  only  a  religion  to  deal  with,  but  a  Church. 

zoziM.     What  Is  a  Church? 

THE  ENVOY.     Not  kuow  what  a  Church  is !    Well ! 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.       YoU  mUst  CXCUSe  me  ;  but 

if  I  attempted  to  explain  you  would  only  ask  me  what  a 
bishop  is ;  and  that  is  a  question  that  no  mortal  man  can 
answer.  All  I  can  tell  you  is  that  Mahomet  was  a  truly 
wise  man;  for  he  founded  a  religion  without  a  Church; 
consequently  when  the  time  came  for  a  Reformation  of 
the  mosques  there  were  no  bishops  and  priests  to  ob- 
struct it.  Our  bishops  and  priests  prevented  us  for  two 
hundred  years  from  following  suit;  and  we  have  never 
recovered  the  start  we  lost  then.  I  can  only  plead  that 
we  did  reform  our  Church  at  last.  No  doubt  we  had  to 
make  a  few  compromises  as  a  matter  of  good  taste;  but 


216    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

there  is  now  very  little  in  our  Articles  of  Religion  that 
is  not  accepted  as  at  least  allegorically  true  by  our 
Higher  Criticism. 

THE  ENVOY  [encouragijiglyli  Besides,  does  it  matter? 
Why,  /  have  never  read  the  Articles  in  my  life;  and  I 
am  Prime  Minister !  Come !  if  my  services  in  arranging 
for  the  reception  of  a  colonizing  party  would  be  accept- 
able, they  are  at  your  disposal.  And  when  I  say  a 
reception  I  mean  a  reception.  Royal  honors,  mind  you ! 
A  salute  of  a  hundred  and  one  guns !  The  streets  lined 
with  troops!  The  Guards  turned  out  at  the  Palace! 
Dinner  at  Guildhall ! 

zoziM.  Discourage  me  if  I  know  what  youre  talking 
about!  I  wish  Zoo  would  come:  she  understands  these 
things.  All  I  can  tell  you  is  that  the  general  opinion 
among  the  Colonizers  is  in  favor  of  beginning  in  a 
country  where  the  people  are  of  a  different  color  from 
us ;  so  that  we  can  make  short  work  without  any  risk  of 
mistakes. 

THE  ENVOY.  What  do  you  mean  by  short  work?  I 
hope — 

ZOZIM  [with  obviously  feigned  geniality']  Oh,  nothing, 
nothing,  nothing.  We  are  thinking  of  trying  North 
America:  thats  all.  You  see,  the  Red  Men  of  that 
country  used  to  be  white.  They  passed  through  a  period 
of  sallow  complexions,  followed  by  a  period  of  no  com- 
plexions at  all,  into  the  red  characteristic  of  their 
climate.  Besides,  several  cases  of  long  life  have 
occurred  in  North  America.  They  joined  us  here;  and 
their  stock  soon  reverted  to  the  original  white  of  these 
islands. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  But  have  you  Considered 
the  possibility  of  your  colony  turning  red? 

zoziM.  That  wont  matter.  We  are  not  particular 
about  our  pigmentation.     The  old  books  mention  red- 


Act  II    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      217 

faced  Englishmen:  they  appear  to  have  been  common 
objects  at  one  time. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [vcry  persuaswely^  But  do 
you  think  you  would  be  popular  in  North  America?  It 
seems  to  me,  if  I  may  say  so,  that  on  your  own  shewing 
you  need  a  country  in  which  society  is  organized  in  a 
series  of  highly  exclusive  circles,  in  which  the  privacy 
of  private  life  is  very  jealously  guarded,  and  in  which  no 
one  presumes  to  speak  to  anyone  else  without  an  intro- 
duction following  a  strict  examination  of  social  cre- 
dentials. It  is  only  in  such  a  country  that  persons  of 
special  tastes  and  attainments  can  form  a  little  world  of 
their  own,  and  protect  themselves  absolutely  from  in- 
trusion by  common  persons.  I  think  I  may  claim  that 
our  British  society  has  developed  this  exclusiveness  to 
perfection.  If  you  would  pay  us  a  visit  and  see  the 
working  of  our  caste  system,  our  club  system,  our  guild 
system,  you  would  admit  that  nowhere  else  in  the  world, 
least  of  all,  perhaps,  in  North  America,  which  has  a 
regrettable  tradition  of  social  promiscuity,  could  you 
keep  yourselves  so  entirely  to  yourselves. 

zoziM  [^good-naturedly  embarrassed^  Look  here. 
There  is  no  good  discussing  this.  I  had  rather  not  ex- 
plain ;  but  it  wont  make  any  difference  to  our  Colonizers 
what  sort  of  shortlivers  they  come  across.  We  shall 
arrange  all  that.  Never  mind  how.  Let  us  join  the 
ladies. 

THE    ELDERLY    GENTLEMAN     [throwing   off    Ms    diplO' 

matte  attitude  and  abandoning  himself  to  despair^  We 
understand  you  only  too  well,  sir.  Well,  kill  us.  End 
the  lives  you  have  made  miserably  unhappy  by  opening 
up  to  us  the  possibility  that  any  of  us  may  live  three 
hundred  years.  I  solemnly  curse  that  possibility.  To 
you  it  may  be  a  blessing,  because  you  do  live  three  hun- 
dred years.    To  us,  who  live  less  than  a  hundred,  whose 


218    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

flesh  is  as  grass,  it  is  the  most  unbearable  burden  our 
poor  tortured  humanity  has  ever  groaned  under. 

THE  ENVOY.  Hullo,  Poppa !  Steady!  How  do  you 
make  that  out? 

zoziM.  What  is  three  hundred  years?  Short  enough, 
if  you  ask  me.  Why,  in  the  old  days  you  people  lived 
on  the  assumption  that  you  were  going  to  last  out  for 
ever  and  ever  and  ever.  Immortal,  you  thought  your- 
selves.    Were  you  any  happier  then? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  As  President  of  the 
Baghdad  Historical  Society  I  am  in  a  position  to  inform 
you  that  the  communities  which  took  this  monstrous 
pretension  seriously  were  the  most  wretched  of  which 
we  have  any  record.  My  Society  has  printed  an  editio 
princeps  of  the  works  of  the  father  of  history,  Thucy- 
derodotus  Macollybuckle.  Have  you  read  his  account 
of  what  was  blasphemously  called  the  Perfect  City  of 
God,  and  the  attempt  made  to  reproduce  it  in  the  north- 
ern part  of  these  islands  by  Jonhobsnoxius,  called  the 
Lebiathan?  Those  misguided  people  sacrificed  the  frag- 
ment of  life  that  was  granted  to  them  in  an  imaginary 
immortality.  They  crucified  the  prophet  who  told  them 
to  take  no  thought  for  the  morrow,  and  that  here  and 
now  was  their  Australia :  Australia  being  a  term  signi- 
fying paradise,  or  an  eternity  of  bliss.  They  tried  to 
produce  a  condition  of  death  in  life :  to  mortify  the  flesh, 
as  they  called  it. 

ZOZIM.  Well,  you  are  not  suffering  from  that,  are 
you  ?    You  have  not  a  mortified  air. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Naturally  we  are  not 
absolutely  insane  and  suicidal.  Nevertheless  we  impose 
on  ourselves  abstinences  and  disciplines  and  studies  that 
are  meant  to  prepare  us  for  living  three  centuries.  And 
we  seldom  live  one.  My  childhood  was  made  unneces- 
sarily painful,  my  boyhood  unnecessarily  laborious,  by 


Act  II    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      219 

ricidulous  preparations  for  a  length  of  days  which  the 
chances  were  fifty  thousand  to  one  against  my  ever 
attaining.  I  have  been  cheated  out  of  the  natural  joys 
and  freedoms  of  my  life  by  this  dream  to  which  the 
existence  of  these  islands  and  their  oracles  gives  a 
delusive  possibility  of  realization.  I  curse  the  day  when 
long  life  was  invented,  just  as  the  victims  of  Jonhobs- 
noxius  cursed  the  day  when  eternal  life  was  invented. 

zoziM.  Pooh !  You  could  live  three  centuries  if  you 
choose. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  That  is  what  the  for- 
tunate always  say  to  the  unfortunate.  Well,  I  do  not 
choose.  I  accept  my  three  score  and  ten  years.  If  they 
are  filled  with  usefulness,  with  justice,  with  mercy,  with 
good-will:  if  they  are  the  lifetime  of  a  soul  that  never 
loses  its  honor  and  a  brain  that  never  loses  its  eagerness, 
they  are  enough  for  me,  because  these  things  are  infinite 
and  eternal,  and  can  make  ten  of  my  years  as  long  as 
thirty  of  yours.  I  shall  not  conclude  by  saying  live  as 
long  as  you  like  and  be  damned  to  you,  because  I  have 
risen  for  the  moment  far  above  any  ill-will  to  you  or  to 
any  fellow-creature;  but  I  am  your  equal  before  that 
eternity  in  which  the  difl[^erence  between  your  lifetime 
and  mine  is  as  the  difference  between  one  drop  of  water 
and  three  in  the  eyes  of  the  Almighty  Power  from  which 
we  have  both  proceeded. 

ZOZIM  limpressed~\  You  spoke  that  piece  very  well, 
Daddy.  I  couldnt  talk  like  that  if  I  tried.  It  sounded 
fine.    Ah !  here  come  the  ladies. 

To  his  relief,  tliey  have  just  appeared  on  the 
threshold  of  the  temple, 

THE   ELDERLY   GENTLEMAN    [paSSVUg   frOm   exdltatioTl 

to  distress^  It  means  nothing  to  him :  in  this  land  of  dis- 
couragement the  sublime  has  become  the  ridiculous, 
[Turning  on  the  hopelessly  puzzled  Zozirri]   "Behold, 


THE  DAUGHTEE     ^ 

lirunmng  ^ 
{    to  hiTn] 

THE  WIPE  j 


220    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

thou  hast  made  my  days  as  it  were  a  span  long;  and 
mine  age  is  even  as  nothing  in  respect  of  thee." 

Poppa,  Poppa:  dont  look 

like  that. 
Oh,    grandpa,    whats    the 
^     matter.? 
zoziM  [with  a  shrug^^  Discouragement! 

THE    ELDERLY    GENTLEMAN    [thrOWing    off    the   WOmCTl 

with  a  superb  gesture^  Liar !  [Recollecting  himself,  he 
adds,  with  noble  courtesy,  raising  his  hat  and  bowing^  I 
beg  your  pardon,  sir ;  but  I  am  NOT  discouraged. 

A  burst  of  orchestral  music,  through  which  a  power- 
ful gong  sounds,  is  heard  from  the  temple.  Zoo,  m  a 
purple  robe,  appears  in  the  doorway, 

zoo.     Come.     The  oracle  is  ready, 

Zozim  motions  them  to  the  threshold  with  a  wave  of 
his  staff.  The  Envoy  and  the  Elderly  Gentleman  take 
off  their  hats  and  go  into  the  temple  on  tiptoe.  Zoo 
leading  the  way.  The  Wife  and  Daughter,  frightened 
as  they  are,  raise  their  heads  uppishly  and  follow  flat- 
footed,  sustained  by  a  sense  of  their  Sunday  clothes  and 
social  consequence.     Zozim  remains  in  the  portico,  alone. 

ZOZIM  [taking  off  his  wig,  beard,  and  robe,  and 
bundling  them  under  his  arm^     Ouf !     [He  goes  home] . 


ACT  III 

Inside  the  temple,  A  gallery  overhanging  an  abyss. 
Dead  silence.  The  gallery  is  brightly  lighted;  but 
beyond  is  a  vast  gloom,  continually  changing  in  in- 
tensity. A  shaft  of  violet  light  shoots  upward;  and  a 
very  harmonious  and  silvery  carillon  chimes.  When  it 
ceases  the  violet  ray  vanishes. 

Zoo  comes  along  the  gallery  followed  by  the  Envoy's 
daughter,  his  wife,  the  Envoy  himself,  and  the  Elderly 
Gentleman,  The  two  men  are  holding  their  hats  with 
the  brims  near  their  noses,  as  if  prepared  to  pray  into 
them  at  a  moment's  notice.  Zoo  halts:  they  all  follow 
her  example.  They  contemplate  the  void  with  awe. 
Organ  music  of  the  kind  called  sacred  in  the  nineteenth 
century  begins.  Their  awe  deepens.  The  violet  ray, 
now  a  diffused  mist,  rises  again  from  the  abyss. 

THE  WIFE  [to  Zoo,  in  a  reverent  whisper]  Shall  we 
kneel  ? 

zoo  [loudly^  Yes,  if  you  want  to.  You  can  stand  on 
your  head  if  you  like.  [She  sits  down  carelessly  on  the 
gallery  railing,  with  her  back  to  the  abyss] , 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [jarrcd  by  her  callousness'] 
We  desire  to  behave  in  a  becoming  manner. 

zoo.  Very  well.  Behave  just  as  you  feel.  It  doesnt 
matter  how  you  behave.  But  keep  your  wits  about  you 
when  the  pythones-s  ascends,  or  you  will  forget  the  ques- 
tions you  have  come  to  ask  her, 

221 


222    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

1  f  [^^^2/  nervous,  takes  out 

THE  ENVOY        |       \  simul-     ^        ^   paper   to   refresh 
}  7   n  "i        ^*^  7nemory~\  Ahem 


THE  DAUGHTER  |  ^^^^"*  V^  |  \_alarmed]  The  python- 
J  y       ess.    Is  she  a  snake? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Tch-ch !  The  priestess 
of  the  oracle.    A  sybil.    A  prophetess.     Not  a  snake. 

THE  WIFE.     How  awful ! 

zoo.     I'm  glad  you  think  so. 

THE  WIFE.     Oh  dear!    Dont  you  think  so? 

zoo.  No.  This  sort  of  thing  is  got  up  to  impress 
you,  not  to  impress  me. 

THE    ELDERLY   GENTLEMAN.       I   wish   yOU    WOuld  let    it 

impress  us,  then,  madam.  I  am  deeply  impressed ;  but 
you  are  spoiling  the  effect. 

ZOO.  You  just  wait.  All  this  business  with  colored 
lights  and  chords  on  that  old  organ  is  only  tomfoolery. 
Wait  till  you  see  the  pythoness. 

The  Envoy* s  wife  falls  on  her  knees,  and  takes 
refuge  in  prayer, 

THE  DAUGHTER  [trembling']  Are  you  really  going  to 
see  a  woman  who  has  lived  three  hundred  years? 

zoo.  Stuff!  Youd  drop  dead  if  a  tertiary  as  much 
as  looked  at  you.  The  oracle  is  only  a  hundred  and 
seventy ;  and  youll  find  it  hard  enough  to  stand  her. 

THE  DAUGHTER  [plteously]  Oh!  [she  falls  on  her 
knees] . 

THE  ENVOY.  Whcw  I  Stand  by  me,  Poppa.  This  is 
a  little  more  than  I  bargained  for.  Are  you  going  to 
kneel;  or  how? 

THE    ELDERLY   GENTLEMAN.       PcrhapS   it   WOuld   be   ID 

better  taste. 

The  two  men  kneel. 

The  vapor  of  the  abyss  thickens;  and  a  distant  roll 
of  thunder  seems  to  come  from  its  depths.    The  python- 


Act  III  Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      223 

ess^  seated  on  her  tripod,  rises  slowly  from  it.  She  has 
discarded  the  msulating  robe  and  veil  in  which  she  con- 
versed with  Napoleon,  and  is  now  draped  and  hooded  in 
voluminous  folds  of  a  single  piece  of  grey-white  stuff. 
Something  supernatural  about  her  terrifies  the  be- 
holders, who  throw  themselves  on  their  faces.  Her  out- 
line flows  and  waves:  she  is  almost  distinct  at  moments, 
and  again  vague  and  shadowy:  above  all,  she  is  larger 
than  life-size,  not  enough  to  be  measured  by  the  flustered 
congregation,  but  enough  to  affect  them  with  a  dreadful 
sense  of  her  supernaturalness. 

zoo.  Get  up,  get  up.  Do  pull  yourselves  together, 
you  people. 

The  Envoy  and  his  family,  by  shuddering  negatively, 
intimate  that  it  is  impossible.  The  Elderly  Gentleman 
manages  to  get  on  his  hands  and  knees. 

zoo.  Come  on,  Daddy :  you  are  not  afraid.  Speak  to 
her.     She  wont  wait  here  all  day  for  you,  you  know. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  prising  Very  deferentially 
to  his  feet']  Madam:  you  will  excuse  my  very  natural 
nervousness  in  addressing,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life, 
a — a — a — a  goddess.  My  friend  and  relative  the  Envoy 
is  unhinged.    I  throw  myself  upon  your  indulgence — 

zoo  [interrupting  him  intolerantly]  Dont  throw  your- 
self on  anything  belonging  to  her  or  you  will  go  right 
through  her  and  break  your  neck.  She  isnt  solid,  like 
you. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  I  was  Speaking  fig- 
uratively— 

zoo.  You  have  been  told  not  to  do  it.  Ask  her  what 
you  want  to  know ;  and  be  quick  about  it. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [stoopiug  and  taking  the 
prostrate  Envoy  by  the  shoulders]  Ambrose:  you  must 
make  an  effort.  You  cannot  go  back  to  Baghdad  with- 
out the  answers  to  your  questions. 


224?    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 

THE  ENVOY  [Hsing  to  Ms  knees]  I  shall  be  only  too 
glad  to  go  back  alive  on  any  terms.  If  my  legs  would 
support  me  I'd  just  do  a  bunk  straight  for  the  ship. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  No,  no.  Remember: 
your  dignity — 

THE  ENVOY.  Dignity  be  damned!  I'm  terrified. 
Take  me  away,  for  God's  sake. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  \_producing  a  bruud^  flask 
and  taking  the  cap  of]  Try  some  of  this.  It  is  still 
nearly  full,  thank  goodness ! 

THE  ENVOY  [clutcMng  it  and  drinking  eagerly]  Ah! 
tihats  better.  [He  tries  to  drink  again.  Finding  that 
he  has  emptied  it,  he  hands  it  hack  to  his  father-in-law 
upside  down] . 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [taking  it]  Great  heavens ! 
He  has  swallowed  half-a-pint  of  neat  brandy.  [Much 
perturbed,  he  screws  the  cap  on  again,  and  pockets  the 
■flask]. 

THE  ENVOY  [staggering  to  his  feet;  pulling  a  paper 
from  his  pocket;  and  speaking  with  boisterous  confi- 
dence] Get  up,  Molly.    Up  with  you,  Eth. 

The  two  women  rise  to  their  knees. 

THE  ENVOY.  What  I  Want  to  ask  is  this.  [He  refers 
to  the  paper].  Ahem!  Civilization  has  reached  a  crisis. 
We  are  at  the  parting  of  the  ways.  We  stand  on  the 
brink  of  the  Rubicon.  Shall  we  take  the  plunge.?  Al- 
ready a  leaf  has  been  torn  out  of  the  book  of  the  Sybil. 
Shall  we  wait  until  the  whole  volume  is  consumed?  On 
our  right  is  the  crater  of  the  volcano:  on  our  left  the 
precipice.  One  false  step,  and  we  go  down  to  annihila- 
tion dragging  the  whole  human  race  with  us.  [He 
pauses  for  breath] . 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [recovering  hls  Spirits  un- 
der the  familiar  stimulus  of  political  oratory]  Hear;, 
hear! 


Act  III  Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      225 

zoo.  What  are  you  raving  about?  Ask  your  ques- 
tion while  you  have  the  chance?  What  is  it  you  want 
to  know? 

THE  ENVOY  [patronizing  her  in  the  manner  of  a  Pre- 
mier debating  with  a  very  young  member  of  the  Opposi- 
tion] A  young  woman  asks  me  a  question.  I  am  always 
glad  to  see  the  young  taking  an  interest  in  politics.  It 
is  an  impatient  question;  but  it  is  a  practical  question, 
an  intelligent  question.  She  asks  why  we  seek  to  lift 
a  corner  of  the  veil  that  shrouds  the  future  from  our 
feeble  vision. 

zoo.  I  dont.  I  ask  you  to  tell  the  oracle  what  you 
want,  and  not  keep  her  sitting  there  all  day. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [^Warmly]  Order,  order ! 

zoo.    What  does  "Order,  order!"  mean? 

THE  ENVOY.  I  ask  the  august  oracle  to  listen  to  my 
voice — 

zoo.  You  people  seem  never  to  tire  of  listening  to 
your  voices ;  but  it  doesnt  amuse  us.  What  do  you 
want  ? 

THE  ENVOY.  I  Want,  youug  woman,  to  be  allowed  to 
proceed  without  unseemly  interruptions. 

A  low  roll  of  thunder  comes  from  tJie  abyss, 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  There !  Eveu  the  oracle 
is  indignant.  [To  the  Envoy]  Do  not  allow  yourself 
to  be  put  down  by  this  lady's  rude  clamor,  Ambrose. 
Take  no  notice.    Proceed. 

THE  envoy's  wife.  I  Can't  bear  this  much  longer, 
Amby.    Remember :  /  havnt  had  any  brandy. 

HIS  DAUGHTER  [trembling]  There  are  serpents  curling 
in  the  vapor.  I  am  afraid  of  the  lightning.  Finish  it. 
Papa ;  or  I  shall  die. 

THE  ENVOY  [ster:ily]  Silence.  The  destiny  of  British 
civilization  is  at  stake.  Trust  me.  I  am  not  afraid.  As 
I  was  saying — ^where  was  I  ? 


226    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman    Part  IV 
zoo.    I  dont  know.    Does  anybody? 

THE    ELDERLY    GENTLEMAN     Itactfully^YoU    Were    just 

coming  to  the  election,  I  think. 

THE  ENVOY  [reassured]^  Just  so.  The  election.  Now 
what  we  want  to  know  is  this:  ought  we  to  dissolve  in 
August,  or  put  it  off  until  next  spring.? 

zoo.  Dissolve.?  In  what.?  \T}iunder~\.  Oh!  I  beg 
your  pardon.  That  means  that  the  oracle  understands 
you,  and  desires  me  to  hold  my  tongue. 

THE  ENVOY  [fervently^  I  thank  the  oracle. 

THE  WIFE  [^to  Zoo^  Serve  you  right! 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Before  the  oracle  replies, 
I  should  like  to  be  allowed  to  state  a  few  of  the  reasons 
why,  in  my  opinion,  the  Government  should  hold  on  until 
the  spring.    In  the  first — 

Terrific  lighting  and  thunder.  The  Elderly  Gentle- 
man is  knocked  fiat;  but  as  he  immediately  sits  up  again 
dazedly  it  is  clear  that  he  is  none  the  worse  for  the  shock. 
The  ladies  cower  in  terror.  The  Emvoy's  hat  is  blown 
off;  but  he  seizes  it  just  as  it  quits  his  temples,  and  holds 
it  on  with  both  hands.  He  is  recklessly  drunk,  but  quite 
articulate,  as  he  seldom  speaks  in  public  without  taking 
stimulants  before  hand. 

THE  ENVOY  [taking  one  hand  from  his  hat  to  make  a 
gesture  of  stilling  the  tempest^  Thats  enough.  We  know 
how  to  take  a  hint.  I'll  put  the  case  in  three  words.  I 
am  the  leader  of  the  Potterbill  party.  My  party  is  in 
power.  I  am  Prime  Minister.  The  Opposition — ^the 
Rotter  jacks — ^have  won  every  bye-election  for  the  last 
six  months.    They — 

THE  ELDEKLY  GENTLEMAN  [scrambling  heatedly  to  his 
feef]  Not  by  fair  means.  By  bribery,  by  misrepresenta- 
tion, by  pandering  to  the  vilest  prejudices  [muttered 
thunder'] — I  beg  your  pardon.      [He  is  silent'], 

THE  ENVOY.     Ncvcr  mind  the  bribery  and  lies.     The 


Act  III  Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      227 

oracle  knows  all  about  that.  The  point  is  that  though 
our  five  years  will  not  expire  until  the  year  after  next, 
our  majority  will  be  eaten  away  at  the  bye-elections  by 
about  Easter.  We  cant  wait:  we  must  start  some  ques- 
tion that  will  excite  the  public,  and  go  to  the  country 
on  it.  But  some  of  us  say  do  it  now.  Others  say  wait 
til  the  spring.  We  cant  make  up  our  minds  one  way  or 
the  other.     Which  would  you  advise.'^ 

zoo.  But  what  is  the  question  that  is  to  excite  your 
public  ? 

THE  ENVOY.  That  docsut  matter.  I  dont  know  yet. 
We  will  find  a  question  all  right  enough.  The  oracle 
can  foresee  the  future;  we  cannot.  [Thunderl^.  What 
does  that  mean?    What  have  I  done  now? 

zoo  [severelt/~\  How  often  must  you  be  told  that  we 
cannot  foresee  the  future?  There  is  no  such  thing  as 
the  future  until  it  is  the  present. 

THE    ELDERLY    GENTLEMAN.       AlloW    me    tO    poiut    OUt, 

madam,  that  when  the  Potterbill  party  sent  to  consult 
the  oracle  fifteen  years  ago,  the  oracle  prophesied  that 
the  Potterbills  would  be  victorious  at  the  General  Elec- 
tion; and  they  were.  So  it  is  evident  that  the  oracle 
can  forsee  the  future,  and  is  sometimes  willing  to  re- 
veal it. 

THE  ENVOY.  Quite  true.  Thank  you.  Poppa.  I  ap- 
peal now,  over  your  head,  young  woman,  direct  to  the 
August  Oracle,  to  repeat  the  signal  favor  conferred  on 
my  illustrious  predecessor.  Sir  Fuller  Eastwind,  and  to 
answer  me  exactly  as  he  was  answered. 

The  oracle  raises  her  hand  to  command  silence, 

ALL.     Sh-sh-sh ! 

Invisible  trombones  utter  three  solemn  blasts  in  the 
manner  of  Die  Zauberftote. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.   May  I 


228    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman  Part  IV 

zoo  IquicMi/^  Hush.     The  oracle  is  going  to  speak. 

THE  ORACLE.    Go  home,  poor  fool. 

She  vanishes;  and  the  atmosphere  changes  to  prosaic 
daylight.  Zoo  comes  off  the  railing;  throws  off  her 
robe;  makes  a  bundle  of  it;  and  tucks  it  under  her  arm. 
The  miagic  and  mystery  are  gone.  The  women  rise  to 
their  feet.  The  Envoy's  party  stare  at  one  another 
helplessly. 

zoo.  The  same  reply,  word  for  word,  that  your  illus- 
trious predecessor,  as  you  call  him,  got  fifteen  years 
ago.  You  asked  for  it ;  and  you  got  it.  And  just  think 
of  all  the  important  questions  you  might  have  asked. 
She  would  have  answered  them,  you  know.  It  is  always 
like  that.  I  will  go  and  arrange  to  have  you  sent  home : 
you  can  wait  for  me  in  the  entrance  hall.  \^She  goes 
out]. 

THE  ENVOY.  What  possessed  me  to  ask  for  the  same 
answer  old  Eastwind  got? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  But  it  was  not  the  samc 
answer.  The  answer  to  Eastwind  was  an  inspiration  to 
our  party  for  years.    It  won  us  the  election. 

THE  envoy's  daughter.  I  learnt  it  at  school,  granpa. 
It  wasnt  the  same  at  all.  I  can  repeat  it.  [She  quotes] 
"When  Britain  was  cradled  in  the  west,  the  east  wind 
hardened  her  and  made  her  great.  Whilst  the  east  wind 
prevails  Britain  shall  prosper.  The  east  wind  shall 
wither  Britain's  enemies  in  the  day  of  contest.  Let  the 
Rotterjacks  look  to  it." 

the  envoy.  The  old  man  invented  that.  I  see  it  all. 
He  was  a  doddering  old  ass  when  he  came  to  consult  the 
oracle.  The  oracle  naturally  said  "Go  home,  poor  fool." 
There  was  no  sense  in  saying  that  to  me;  but  as  that 
girl  said,  I  asked  for  it.  What  else  could  the  poor  old 
chap   do  but  fake  up  an  answer  fit  for  publication? 


Act  III  Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      22& 

There  were  whispers  about  it ;  but  nobody  believed  them. 
I  believe  them  now. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Oh,  I  cannot  admit  that 
Sir  Fuller  Eastwind  was  capable  of  such  a  fraud. 

THE  ENVOY.  He  was  capable  of  anything :  I  knew  his 
private  secretary.  And  now  what  are  we  going  to  say? 
You  dont  suppose  I  am  going  back  to  Baghdad  to  tell 
the  British  Empire  that  the  oracle  called  me  a  fool,  do 
you? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  Surely  we  must  tell  the 
truth,  however  painful  it  may  be  to  our  feelings. 

THE  ENVOY.  I  am  not  thinking  of  my  feelings :  I  am 
not  so  selfish  as  that,  thank  God.  I  am  thinking  of  the 
country:  of  our  party.  The  truth,  as  you  call  it, 
would  put  the  Rotter  jacks  in  for  the  next  twenty  years. 
It  would  be  the  end  of  me  politically.  Not  that  I  care 
for  that :  I  am  only  too  willing  to  retire  if  you  can  find 
a  better  man.    Dont  hesitate  on  my  account. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  No,  Ambrosc  I  you  are 
indispensable.    There  is  no  one  else. 

THE  ENVOY.  Very  well,  then.  What  are  you  going 
to  do? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  My  dear  Ambrose,  you 
are  the  leader  of  the  party,  not  I.  What  are  you  going 
to  do? 

THE  ENVOY.  I  am  going  to  tell  the  exact  truth :  thats 
what  I'm  going  to  do.    Do  you  take  me  for  a  liar  ? 

THE   ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN    [pUZzUd^    Oh,   I  beg  yoUF 

pardon.    I  understood  you  to  say — 

THE  ENVOY  [cutting  Mm  short]  You  understood  me  to 
say  that  I  am  going  back  to  Baghdad  to  tell  the  British 
electorate  that  the  oracle  repeated  to  me,  word  for  word, 
what  it  said  to  Sir  Fuller  Eastwind  fifteen  years  ago. 
Molly  and  Ethel  can  bear  me  out.  So  must  you,  if  you 
are  an  honest  man.    Come  on. 


230    Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman  Part  IV 

He  goes  out,  followed  by  his  wife  and  daughter, 
THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN  [left  aloTic  and  shrinking 
into  an  old  and  desolate  figure^  What  am  I  to  do?  I 
am  a  most  perplexed  and  wretched  man.  \_He  falls  on 
his  knees,  and  stretches  his  hands  in  entreaty  over  the 
abyss^ .  I  invoke  the  oracle.  I  cannot  go  back  and  con- 
nive at  a  blasphemous  lie.     I  implore  guidance. 

The  Pythoness  walks  in  on  the  gallery  behind  him, 
and  touches  him  on  the  shoulder.  Her  size  is  auCij  natu- 
ral. Her  face  is  hidden  by  her  hood.  He  flinches  as  if 
from  an  electric  shock;  turns  to  her;  and  cowers,  cover- 
ing his  eyes  in  terror. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.      No  I  TiOt  cloSC  to  me.      I'm 

afraid  I  cant  bear  it, 

THE  ORACLE  [zvith  gravc  pity^  Come :  look  at  me.  I 
am  my  natural  size  now :  what  you  saw  there  was  only  a 
foolish  picture  of  me  thrown  on  a  cloud  by  a  lantern. 
How  can  I  help  you.? 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  They  have  gonc  back  to 
lie  about  your  answer.  I  cannot  go  with  them.  I  cannot 
live  among  people  to  whom  nothing  is  real.  I  have  be- 
come incapable  of  it  through  my  stay  here.  I  implore 
to  be  allowed  to  stay. 

THE  ORACLE.  My  friend :  if  you  stay  with  us  you  will 
die  of  discouragement. 

THE    ELDERLY   GENTLEMAN.       If  I  gO  back   I   shall    die 

of  disgust  and  despair.  I  take  the  nobler  risk.  I  beg 
you,  do  not  cast  me  out. 

He  catches  her  robe  and  holds  her. 

THE  ORACLE.  Take  care.  I  have  been  here  one  hun- 
dred and  seventy  years.  Your  death  does  not  mean  to 
me  what  it  means  to  you. 

THE  ELDERLY  GENTLEMAN.  It  IS  the  meaning  of  life, 
not  of  death,  that  makes  banishment  so  terrible  to  me. 

THE  ORACLE.     Bc  it  SO,  then.    You  may  stay. 


Act  III  Tragedy  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman      231 

She  offers  him  her  hands.  He  grasps  them  and  raises 
himself  a  little  hy  clinging  to  her.  She  loolcs  steadily 
into  its  face.  He  stiffens;  a  little  convulsion  shakes  him; 
his  grasp  releases;  and  he  falls  dead. 

THE  ORACLE  [looMng  down  at  the  bodyl  Poor  short- 
lived thing !    What  else  could  I  do  for  you  ? 


PART  V 

AS  FAR  AS  THOUGHT  CAN  REACH 

XXXVI 


AS  FAR  AS  THOUGHT  CAN  REACH 

Summer  afternoon  in  the  year  31,920  a.d.  A  sunlit 
glade  at  the  southern  foot  of  a  thickly  wooded  hill.  On 
the  west  side  of  it,  the  steps  and  columned  porch  of  a 
dainty  little  classic  temple.  Between  it  and  the  hilly  a 
rising  path  to  the  wooded  heights  begins  with  rough 
steps  of  stones  in  the  moss.  On  the  opposite  side,  a 
grove.  In  the  middle  of  the  glade,  an  altar  in  the  form 
of  a  low  marble  table  as  long  as  a  man,  set  parallel  to 
the  temple  steps  and  pointing  to  the  hill.  Curved  marble 
benches  radiate  from  it  into  the  foreground;  but  they 
are  not  joined  to  it:  there  is  plenty  of  space  to  pass  be- 
tween the  altar  and  the  beTwhes. 

A  dance  of  youths  and  maidens  is  in  progress.  The 
music  is  provided  by  a  few  flute  players  seated  carelessly 
on  the  steps  of  the  temple.  There  are  no  children;  and 
none  of  the  dancers  seems  younger  than  eighteen.  Some 
of  the  youths  have  beards.  Their  dress,  like  the  archi" 
tecture  of  the  theatre  and  the  design  of  the  altar  and 
curved  seats,  resembles  Grecian  of  the  fourth  century 
B.C.,  freely  handled.  They  move  with  perfect  balance 
and  remarkable  grace,  racing  through  a  figure  like  a 
farandole.     They  neither  romp  nor  hug  in  our  manner. 

At  the  first  full  close  they  clap  their  hands  to  stop  the 
musicians,  who  recommence  with  a  saraband,  during 
which  a  strange  figure  appears  on  the  path  beyond  the 
temple.    He  is  deep  in  thought,  with  his  eyes  closed  and 

236 


236       As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach       Part  V 

his  feet  feeling  automatically  for  the  rough  irregular 
steps  as  he  slowly  descends  them.  Except  for  a  sort  of 
linen  kilt  consisting  mainly  of  a  girdle  carrying  a  spor- 
ran and  a  few  minor  pockets^  he  is  naked.  In  physical 
hardihood  and  uprightness  he  seems  to  he  in  the  prime 
of  life;  and  his  eyes  and  mouth  show  no  sign  of  age; 
hut  his  fact,  though  fully  and  firmly  -fleshed,  hears  a  net- 
work of  lines,  varying  from  furrows  to  hairbreadth 
reticulations,  as  if  Time  had  worked  over  every  inch  of 
it  incessantly  through  whole  geologic  periods.  His  head 
is  finely  domed  and  utterly  hold.  Except  for  his  eye- 
lashes he  is  quite  hairless.  He  is  unconscious  of  his  sur- 
roundings, and  walks  right  into  one  of  the  dancing 
couples,  separating  them.  He  wakes  up  and  stares 
about  him.  The  couple  stop  indignantly.  The  rest 
stop.  The  music  stops.  The  youth  whom  he  has  jostled 
accosts  him  without  malice,  hut  without  anything  that 
we  should  call  manners, 

THE  YOUTH.  Now,  thcii,  anclent  sleepwalker,  why 
dont  you  keep  your  eyes  open  and  mind  w'here  you  are 
going? 

THE  ANCIENT  [mild,  bland  and  indulgent^  I  did  not 
know  there  was  a  nursery  here,  or  I  should  not  have 
turned  my  face  in  this  direction.  Such  accidents  cannot 
always  be  avoided.  Go  on  with  your  play:  I  will  turn 
back. 

THE  YOUTH.  Why  uot  stay  with  us  and  enjoy  life  for 
once  in  a  way  ?    We  will  teach  you  to  dance. 

THE  ANCIENT.  No,  thank  you.  I  danced  when  I  was 
a  child  like  you.  Dancing  is  a  very  crude  attempt  to 
get  into  the  rhythm  of  life.  It  would  be  painful  to  me 
to  go  back  from  that  rhythm  to  your  babyish  gambols : 
in  fact  I  could  not  do  it  if  I  tried.  But  at  your  age  it 
is  pleasant ;  and  I  am  sorry  I  disturbed  you. 

THE  YOUTH,    Comc !  own  up :  arnt  you  very  unhappy? 


Part  V    As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach         237 

It's  dreadful  to  see  you  ancients  going  about  by  your- 
selves, never  noticing  anything,  never  dancing,  never 
laughing,  never  singing,  never  getting  anything  out  of 
life.  None  of  us  are  going  to  be  like  that  Tdien  we  grow 
up.    It's  a  dog's  life. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Not  at  all.  You  repeat  that  old 
phrase  without  knowing  that  there  was  once  a  creature 
on  earth  called  a  dog.  Those  who  are  interested  in  ex- 
tinct forms  of  life  will  tell  you  that  it  loved  the  sound 
of  its  own  voice  and  bounded  about  wOien  it  was  happy, 
just  as  you  are  doing  here.  It  is  you,  my  children,  who 
are  living  the  dog's  life. 

THE  YOUTH.  The  dog  must  h-ave  been  a  good  sensible 
creature:  it  set  you  a  very  wise  example.  You  should 
let  yourself  go  occasionally  and  have  a  good  time. 

THE  ANCIENT.  My  children:  be  content  to  let  us  an- 
cients go  our  ways  and  enjoy  ourselves  in  our  own 
fashion. 

He  turns  to  go, 

THE  MAIDEN.  But  Wait  a  moment.  Why  will  you  not 
tell  us  how  you  enjoy  yourself.?  You  must  have  secret 
pleasures  that  you  hide  from  us,  and  that  you  never  get 
tired  of.  I  get  tired  of  all  our  dances  and  all  our  tunes. 
I  get  tired  of  all  my  partners. 

THE  YOUTH  [^suspiciotisly']  Do  you.?  I  shall  bear  that 
in  mind. 

They  all  look  at  one  another  as  if  there  were  some 
sinister  significance  in  what  she  has  said, 

THE  MAIDEN.  We  all  do :  what  is  the  use  of  pretend- 
ing we  dont?    It  is  natural. 

SEVERAL  YOUNG  PEOPLE.  No,  uo.  We  dout.  It  is 
not  natural. 

THE  ANCIENT.  You  are  older  than  he  is,  I  see.  You 
are  growing  up. 


238        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach       Part  V 

THE  MAIDEN.  How  do  jou  know?  I  do  not  look  so 
much  older,  do  I? 

THE  ANCIENT.  Oh,  I  was  not  looking  at  you.  Your 
looks  do  not  interest  me. 

THE  MAIDEN.    Thank  you. 

They  all  laugh. 

THE  YOUTH.  You  old  fish !  I  believe  you  dont  know 
the  difference  between  a  man  and  a  woman. 

THE  ANCIENT.  It  has  long  ceased  to  interest  me  in  the 
way  it  interests  you.  And  when  anything  no  longer  in- 
terests us  we  no  longer  know  it. 

THE  MAIDEN.  You  havnt  told  me  how  I  shew  my  age. 
That  is  what  I  want  to  know.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I 
am  older  than  this  boy  here :  older  than  he  thinks.  How 
did  you  find  that  out.? 

THE  ANCIENT.  Easily  enough.  You  are  ceasing  to 
pretend  that  these  childish  games — this  dancing  and 
singing  and  mating — do  not  become  tiresome  and  unsat- 
isfying after  a  while.  And  you  no  longer  care  to  pre- 
tend that  you  are  younger  than  you  are.  These  are  the 
signs  of  adolescence.  And  then,  see  these  fantastic  rags 
with  which  you  have  draped  yourself.  [He  takes  up  a 
piece  of  her  draperies  in  his  hand].  It  is  rather  badly 
worn  here.    Why  do  you  not  get  a  new  one  ? 

THE  MAIDEN.  Oh,  I  did  not  notice  it.  Besides,  it  is 
too  much  trouble.  Clothes  are  a  nuisance.  I  think  I 
shall  do  without  them  some  day,  as  you  ancients  do. 

THE  ANCIENT.  Sigus  of  maturity.  Soon  you  will  give 
up  all  these  toys  and  games  and  sweets. 

THE  YOUTH.    What !    And  be  as  miserable  as  you ! 

THE  ANCIENT.  Infant :  one  moment  of  the  ecstasy  of 
life  as  we  live  it  would  strike  you  dead.  [He  stalks 
gravely  out  through  the  grove^. 

They  stare  after  him,  much  damped. 


Part  V    As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach  239 

THE  YOUTH  \_to  the  musicians]  Let  us  have  another 
dance. 

The  musicians  shake  their  heads;  get  up  from  their 
seats  on  the  steps;  and  troop  away  into  the  temple. 
The  others  follow  them,  except  the  Maiden,  who  sits 
down  on  the  altar, 

THE  YOUTH  \_turning  on  the  steps^  Arnt  you  coming, 
Chloe? 

THE  MAIDEN  [shakcs  her  head~\  ! 

THE  YOUTH  [hurryiug  hack  to  her']  What  is  the 
matter? 

THE  MAIDEN  [tragically  pensive]  I  dont  know. 

THE  YOUTH.  Then  there  is  something  the  matter.  Is 
that  what  you  mean.? 

THE  MAIDEN.  Ycs.  Something  is  happening  to  me. 
I  dont  know  what. 

THE  YOUTH.  You  no  longer  love  me.  I  have  seen  it 
for  a  month  past. 

THE  MAIDEN.  Dont  you  think  all  that  is  rather  silly.? 
We  cannot  go  on  as  if  this  kind  of  thing,  this  dancing 
and  sweethearting,  were  everything. 

THE  YOUTH.  What  is  there  better.?  What  else  is 
there  worth  living  for? 

THE  MAIDEN.    Oh,  stuff !    Dont  be  frivolous. 

THE  YOUTH.  Something  horrible  is  happening  to  you. 
You  are  losing  all  heart,  all  feeling.  [He  sits  on  the 
altar  beside  her  and  buries  his  face  in  his  hands] ,  I  am 
bitterly  unhappy. 

THE  MAIDEN.  Unhappy!  Really,  you  must  have  a 
very  empty  head  If  there  Is  nothing  In  It  but  a  dance 
with  one  girl  who  Is  no  better  than  any  of  the  other 
girls. 

THE  YOUTH.  You  did  not  always  think  so.  You  used 
to  be  vexed  If  I  as  much  as  looked  at  another  girl. 

THE  MAIDEN.     What  does  It  matter  what  I  did  when 


240        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach       Part  V 

I  was  a  baby  ?  Nothing  existed  for  me  then  except  what 
I  tasted  and  touched  and  saw ;  and  I  wanted  all  that  for 
myself,  just  as  I  wanted  the  moon  to  play  with.  Now 
the  world  is  opening  out  for  me.  More  than  the  world : 
the  universe.  Even  little  things  are  turning  out  to  be 
great  things,  and  becoming  intensely  interesting.  Have 
you  ever  thought  about  the  properties  of  numbers? 

THE  YOUTH  [sitting  up,  markedly  disenchanted]  Num- 
bers !  !  !  I  cannot  imagine  anything  drier  or  more  re- 
pulsive. 

THE  MAIDEN.  They  are  fascinating,  just  fascinating. 
I  want  to  get  away  from  our  eternal  dancing  and  music, 
and  just  sit  down  by  myself  and  think  about  numbers. 

THE  YOUTH  [rising  indignantly']  Oh,  this  is  too  much. 
I  have  suspected  you  for  some  time  past.  We  have  all 
suspected  you.  All  the  girls  say  that  you  have  deceived 
us  as  to  your  age:  that  you  are  getting  flat-chested; 
that  you  are  bored  with  us ;  that  you  talk  to  the  ancients 
when  you  get  the  chance.  Tell  me  the  truth:  how  old 
are  you.'' 

THE  MAIDEN.    Just  twicc  your  age,  my  poor  boy. 

THE  YOUTH.  Twlce  my  age!  Do  you  mean  to  say 
you  are  four.? 

THE  MAIDEN.    Very  nearly  four. 

THE  YOUTH  [collapsing  on  the  altar  with  a  groan] 
Oh! 

THE  MAIDEN.  My  poor  Strephon :  I  pretended  I  was 
only  two  for  your  sake.  I  was  two  when  you  were  born. 
I  saw  you  break  from  your  shell;  and  you  were  such  a 
charming  child !  You  ran  round  and  talked  to  us  all  so 
prettily,  and  were  so  handsome  and  well  grown,  that  I 
lost  my  heart  to  you  at  once.  But  now  I  seem  to  have 
lost  it  altogether;  bigger  things  are  taking  possession 
of  me.  Still,  we  were  very  happy  in  our  childish  way 
for  the  first  year,  wernt  we? 


Part  y    As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach  241 

STREPHON.  I  was  happy  until  you  began  coohng  to- 
wards me. 

THE  MAIDEN.  Not  towaids  you,  but  towards  all  the 
trivialities  of  our  life  here.  Just  think.  I  have  hun- 
dreds of  years  to  live:  perhaps  thousands.  Do  you 
suppose  I  can  spend  centuries  dancing;  listening  to 
flutes  ringing  changes  on  a  few  tunes  and  a  few  notes ; 
raving  about  the  beauty  of  a  few  pillars  and  arches; 
making  jingles  with  words;  lying  about  with  your  arms 
round  me,  which  is  really  neither  comfortable  nor  con- 
venient; everlastingly  choosing  colors  for  dresses,  and 
putting  them  on,  and  washing;  making  a  business  of 
sitting  together  at  fixed  hours  to  absor'b  our  nourish- 
ment ;  taking  little  poisons  with  it  to  make  us  delirious 
enough  to  imagine  we  are  enjoying  ourselves;  and  then 
having  to  pass  the  nights  in  shelters  lying  in  cots  and 
losing  half  our  lives  in  a  state  of  unconsciousness.  Sleep 
is  a  shameful  thing:  I  have  not  slept  at  all  for  weeks 
past.  I  have  stolen  out  at  night  when  you  were  all 
lying  insensible — quite  disgusting,  I  call  it — and  wan- 
dered about  the  woods,  thinking,  thinking,  thinking; 
grasping  the  world ;  taking  it  to  pieces ;  building  it  up 
again;  devising  methods;  planning  experiments  to  test 
the  methods ;  and  having  a  glorious  time.  Every  morn- 
ing I  have  come  back  here  with  greater  and  greater  re- 
luctance ;  and  I  know  that  the  time  will  soon  come — per- 
haps it  has  come  already — when  I  shall  not  come  back 
at  all. 

STREPHON.    How  horribly  cold  and  uncomfortable ! 

THE  MAIDEN.  Oh,  dont  talk  to  me  of  comfort !  Life 
is  not  worth  living  if  you  have  to  bother  about  comfort, 
Comfort  makes  winter  a  torture,  spring  an  illness,  sum- 
mer an  oppression,  and  autumn  only  a  respite.  The 
ancients  could  make  life  one  long  frowsty  comfort  if 
they  chose.    But  they  never  lift  a  finger  to  make  them- 


242       As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach       Part  V 

selves  comfortable.  They  will  not  sleep  under  a  roof. 
They  will  not  clothe  themselves:  a  girdle  with  a  few 
pockets  hanging  to  it  to  carry  things  about  in  is  all 
they  wear:  they  will  sit  down  on  the  wet  moss  or  in  a 
gorse  bush  when  there  is  dry  heather  within  two  yards 
of  them.  Two  years  ago,  when  you  were  born,  I  did  not 
understand  this.  Now  I  feel  that  I  would  not  put  my- 
«elf  to  the  trouble  of  walking  two  paces  for  all  the  com- 
fort in  the  world. 

STEEPHON.  But  you  dout  know  what  this  means  to 
me.  It  means  that  you  are  dying  to  me :  yes,  just  dying. 
Listen  to  me.      [He  puts  his  arm  around  her], 

THE  MAIDEN  [extricating  herself]  Dont.  We  can  talk 
quite  as  well  without  touching  one  another. 

STREPHON  [horrified^  Chloe!  Oh,  this  is  the  worst 
symptom  of  all !    The  ancients  never  touch  one  another. 

THE  MAIDEN.     Why  should  they? 

STREPHON.  Oh,  I  dont  know.  But  dont  you  want  to 
touch  me?    You  used  to. 

THE  MAIDEN.  Yes :  that  is  true :  I  used  to.  We  used 
to  think  it  would  be  nice  to  sleep  in  one  another's  arms ; 
but  we  never  could  go  to  sleep  because  our  weight 
stopped  our  circulations  just  above  the  elbows.  Then 
somehow  my  feeling  began  to  change  bit  by  bit.  I  kept 
a  sort  of  interest  in  your  head  and  arms  long  after  I 
lost  interest  in  your  whole  body.  And  now  that  has 
gone. 

STREPHON.    You  no  longer  care  for  me  at  all,  then? 

THE  MAIDEN.  Nonscuse !  I  care  for  you  much  more 
seriously  than  before;  though  perhaps  not  so  much  for 
you  in  particular.  I  mean  I  care  more  for  everybody. 
But  I  dont  want  to  touch  you  unnecessarily ;  and  I  cer- 
tainly dont  want  you  to  touch  me. 

STREPHON  [rising  decisively/]  That  finishes  it.  You 
dislike  me. 


Part  V    As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach  243 

THE  MAIDEN  ^impatiently^  I  tell  you  again,  I  do  not 
dislike  you;  but  you  bore  me  when  you  cannot  under- 
stand; and  I  think  I  shall  be  happier  by  myself  in 
future.  You  had  better  get  a  new  companion.  What 
about  the  girl  who  is  to  be  born  today? 

STREPHON.  I  do  not  Want  the  girl  who  is  to  be  born 
today.  How  do  I  know  what  she  will  be  like?  I  want 
you. 

THE  MAIDEN.  You  canuot  havc  me.  You  must  recog- 
nize facts  and  face  them.  It  is  no  use  running  after  a 
woman  twice  your  age.  I  cannot  make  my  childhood 
last  to  please  you.  The  age  of  love  is  sweet ;  but  it  is 
short;  and  I  must  pay  nature's  debt.  You  no  longer 
attract  me ;  and  I  no  longer  care  to  attract  you.  Growth 
is  too  rapid  at  my  age:  I  am  maturing  from  week  to 
week. 

STREPHON.  You  are  maturing,  as  you  call  it — ^I  call 
it  ageing — from  minute  to  minute.  You  are  going  much 
further  than  you  did  when  we  began  this  conversation. 

THE  MAIDEN.  It  is  not  the  ageing  that  is  so  rapid. 
It  is  the  realization  of  it  when  it  has  actually  happened. 
Now  that  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  the  fact  that  I 
have  left  childhood  behind  me,  it  comes  home  to  me  in 
leaps  and  bounds  with  every  word  you  say. 

STREPHON.  But  your  vow.  Have  you  forgotten  that? 
We  all  swore  together  in  that  temple ;  the  temple  of  love. 
You  were  more  earnest  than  any  of  us. 

THE  MAIDEN  \^with  tt  grim  smiW]  Never  to  let  our 
hearts  grow  cold!  Never  to  become  as  the  ancients! 
Never  to  let  the  sacred  lamp  be  extinguished !  Never  to 
change  or  forget!  To  be  remembered  for  ever  as  the 
first  company  of  true  lovers  faithful  to  this  vow  so  often 
made  and  broken  by  past  generations !  Ha !  ha !  Oh, 
dear! 

STREPHON.     Well,  you  need  not  laugh.     It  is  a  beau- 


244        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach       Part  V 

tif ul  and  holj  compact ;  and  I  will  keep  it  whilst  I  live. 
Are  you  going  to  break  it? 

THE  MAIDEN.  Dear  child:  it  has  broken  itself.  The 
change  has  come  in  spite  of  my  childish  vow.  \^She 
rises^ ,  Do  you  mind  if  I  go  into  the  woods  for  a  walk 
by  myself?  This  chat  of  ours  seems  to  me  an  unbear- 
able waste  of  time.    I  have  so  much  to  think  of. 

STREPHON  \^again  collapsing  on  the  altar  and  cover- 
ing  his  eyes  with  his  hands^  My  heart  is  broken.  [He 
weeps^ . 

THE  MAIDEN  \_ZiKth  a  shrug]  I  have  luckily  got 
through  my  childhood  without  that  experience.  It  shows 
how  wise  I  was  to  choose  a  lover  half  my  age.  \^She 
goes  towards  the  grove,  and  is  disappearing  among  the 
trees,  when  another  youth,  older  and  manlier  than 
Strephon,  with  crisp  hair  and  firm  arms,  comes  from  the 
temple,  and  calls  to  her  from  the  threshold^, 

THE  TEMPLE  YOUTH.  I  Say,  Chloe.  Is  there  any  sign 
of  the  Ancient  yet  ?  The  hour  of  birth  is  overdue.  The 
baby  is  kicking  like  mad.  She  will  break  her  shell  pre- 
maturely. 

THE  MAIDEN  [looks  across  to  the  hill  path;  then  points 
up  it,  and  says^  She  is  coming,  Acis. 

The  Maiden  turns  away  through  the  grove  and  is  lost 
to  sight  among  the  trees. 

ACIS  [^coming  to  Strephon~\  Whats  the  matter?  Has 
Chloe  been  unkind? 

STREPHON.  She  has  grown  up  in  spite  of  all  her 
promises.     She  deceived  us  about  her  age.     She  is  four. 

ACIS.  Four!  I  am  sorry,  Strephon.  I  am  getting 
on  for  three  myself;  and  I  know  what  old  age  is.  I 
hate  to  say  "I  told  you  so" ;  but  she  was  getting  a  little 
hard  set  and  flat-chested  and  thin  on  the  top,  wasnt  she  ? 

STREPHON  [breaking  dorem'}  Dont. 

ACIS.    You  must  pull  yourself  together.    This  is  go- 


Part.  V     As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach  245 

ing  to  be  a  busy  day.  First  the  birth.  Then  the  Festi- 
val of  the  Artists. 

STREPHON  [rising^  What  is  the  use  of  being  bom  if 
we  have  to  decay  into  unnatural,  heartless,  loveless,  joy- 
less monsters  in  four  short  years?  What  use  are  the 
artists  if  they  cannot  bring  their  beautiful  creations  to 
life?  I  have  a  great  mind  to  die  and  have  done  with  it 
all.  [He  moves  away  to  the  corner  of  the  curved  seat 
farthest  from  the  theatre,  and  throws  himself  moodily 
into  it\. 

An  Ancient  Woman  has  descended  the  hill  path  during 
Stephen's  lament,  and  has  heard  most  of  it.  She  is  like 
the  He- Ancient,  equally  bald,  and  equally  without  sexual 
charm,  but  intensely  interesting  and  rather  terrifying. 
Her  sex  is  discoverable  only  by  her  voice,  as  her  breasts 
are  manly,  and  her  figure  otherwise  not  very  different. 
She  wears  no  clothes,  but  has  draped  herself  rather  per- 
functorily with  a  ceremonial  robe,  and  carries  two  im- 
plements like  long  slender  saws.  She  comes  to  the  altar 
between  the  two  young  men. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT  \_to  Strephou'j  Infant :  you  are  only 
at  the  beginning  of  it  all.  [To  Acis^  Is  the  child  ready 
to  be  born? 

ACis.  More  than  ready,  Ancient.  Shouting  and  kick- 
ing and  cursing.  We  have  called  to  her  to  be  quiet  and 
wait  until  you  come ;  but  of  course  she  only  half  under- 
stands, and  is  very  impatient. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  Very  well.  Bring  her  out  into  the 
sun. 

ACis  [going  quickly  into  the  temple']  All  ready.  Come 
along. 

Joyous  processional  music  strikes  up  in  the  temple. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT  [goiug  close  to  Strephon]  Look  at 
me. 

STREPHON  [sulkily  keeping  his  face  averted]  Thank 


246        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach      Part  V 

you ;  but  I  dont  want  to  be  cured.  I  had  rather  be  mis- 
erable in  my  own  way  than  callous  in  yours. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  You  like  being  miserable?  You 
will  soon  grow  out  of  that.      [Site  returns  to  the  altar^. 

The  procession,  headed  by  Acis,  emerges  from  the 
temple.  Six  youths  carry  on  their  shoulders  a  burden 
covered  with  a  gorgeous  but  light  pall.  Before  them 
certain  official  maidens  carry  a  new  tunic,  ewers  of  water, 
silver  dishes  pierced  with  holes,  cloths,  and  immense 
sponges.  The  rest  carry  wands  with  ribbons,  and  strew 
flowers.  The  burden  is  deposited  on  the  altar,  and  the 
pall  removed.    It  is  a  huge  egg. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT  [freeing  her  arms  from  her  robe, 
and  placing  her  saws  on  the  altar  ready  to  her  hand  in  a 
businesslike  manner^  A  girl,  I  think  you  said? 

ACIS.    Yes. 

THE  TUNIC  BEARER.  It  IS  a  shame.  Why  cant  we 
have  more  boys? 

SEVERAL  YOUTHS  [pTotesting^  Not  at  all.  More  girls. 
We  want  new  girls. 

A  girl's  voice  from  the  egg.  Let  me  out.  Let  me 
out.  I  want  to  be  born.  I  want  to  be  born,  [The  egg 
roclcs^ . 

acis  [snatching  a  wand  from  one  of  the  others  and 
whacking  the  egg  with  it']  Be  quiet,  I  tell  you.  Wait. 
You  will  be  born  presently. 

THE  EGG.  No,  no  I  at  once,  at  once.  I  want  to  be  born : 
I  want  to  be  born.  [Violent  kiching  within  tJie  egg, 
which  rocks  so  hard  that  it  has  to  be  held  on  the  altar  by 
the  bearers] . 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  Sileuce.  [Thc  music  stops;  and 
the  egg  behaves  itself] . 

The  She-Ancient  takes  her  two  saws,  and  with  a 
couple  of  strokes  rips  the  egg  open.  The  Newly  Born, 
a  pretty  girl  who  would  have  been  guessed  as  seventeen 


Part  V    As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach         247 

in  our  day,  sits  up  in  the  broken  shell,  exquisitely  fresh 
and  rosy,  hut  with  filaments  of  spare  albumen  clinging 
to  her  here  and  there.  Immediately  the  maidens  set  to 
•work,  some  to  shower  water  on  her  from  the  ewers 
through  the  pierced  dishes,  others  to  rub  her  dry 
with  cloths.  Meanwhile  the  youths  beat  the  shell  to 
little  pieces  with  their  wands,  all  laughing  at  the  Newly 
Bom  who  laughs  imitatively.  The  Tunic  Bearer  clothes 
her;  and  then  they  lift  her  to  her  feet  and  dance  for- 
wards, she  dancing  with  them  as  best  she  can.  Acts  and 
the  She-Ancient  come  forward  with  them,  he  still  on  the 
baby's  right,  she  on  her  left], 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  What  Damc  have  you  chosen  for 
her? 

Acis.     Amaryllis. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT  [fo  the  Newly  Born]  Your  name  is 
Amaryllis. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.     What  does  it  mean? 

A  YOUTH.     Love. 

A  MAIDEN.     Mother. 

ANOTHER  YOUTH.       LilicS. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN  \_to  Ads']  What  is  your  name? 

ACTS.     Acis. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  I  love  you,  Acls.  I  must  have 
you  all  to  myself.    Take  me  in  your  arms. 

ACIS.     Steady,  young  one.    I  am  three  years  old. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  What  has  that  to  do  with  it?  I 
love  you;  and  I  must  have  you  or  I  will  go  back  into 
my  shell  again. 

ACIS.  You  cant.  It's  broken.  Look  here  [pointing 
to  Strephon,  who  has  remained  in  his  seat  without  look- 
ing round  at  the  birth,  wrapped  up  in  his  sorrow']  ! 
Look  at  this  poor  fellow! 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.     What  IS  the  matter  with  him? 

ACIS.     When  he  was  born  he  chose  a  girl  twa  years 


248        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach       Part  V 

old  for  his  sweetheart.  He  is  two  years  old  now  him- 
self ;  and  already  his  keart  is  broken  because  she  is  four. 
That  means  that  she  has  grown  up  like  this  Ancient 
here,  and  has  left  him.  If  you  choose  me,  we  shall  have 
only  a  year's  happiness  before  I  break  your  heart  by 
growing  up.     Better  choose  the  youngest  you  can  find. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  I  will  uot  choose  anyone  but  you. 
You  must  not  grow  up.  We  will  love  one  another  for 
ever.      [They  all  laugh].     What  are  you  laughing  at? 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.     Listen,  child — 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  Do  not  come  near  me,  you  dread- 
ful old  creaiture.    You  frighten  me. 

ACis.  Just  give  her  another  moment.  She  is  not 
quite  reasonable  yet.  What  can  you  expect  from  a  child 
less  than  five  minutes  old.? 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  I  think  I  feel  a  little  more  reason- 
able now.  Of  course  I  was  rather  young  when  I  said 
that ;  but  the  inside  of  my  head  is  changing  very  rapidly. 
I  should  like  to  have  things  explained  to  me. 

ACis  [to  the  She-Ancient']  Is  she  all  right,  do  you 
think? 

The  She-Ancient  looJcs  at  the  Newly  Born  critically; 
feels  her  bumps  like  a  phrenologist ;  grips  her  muscles 
and  shakes  her  limbs;  examines  her  teeth;  looks  into  her 
eyes  for  a  moment;  and  finally  relinquishes  her  with  an 
air  of  having  finished  her  job, 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.     She  will  do.    She  may  live. 

They  all  wave  their  wands  and  shout  for  joy, 

THE  NEWLY  BORN  [indignant~\  I  may  live!  Suppose 
there  had  been  anything  wrong  with  me? 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  Children  with  anything  wrong  do 
not  live  here,  my  child.  Life  is  not  cheap  with  us.  But 
you  would  not  have  felt  an3rthing. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  You  mean  that  you  would  have 
murdered  me ! 


Part  V    As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach  249 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  That  is  One  of  the  funny  words 
the  newly  born  bring  with  them  out  of  the  past.  You 
will  forget  it  tomorrow.  Now  listen.  You  have  four 
years  of  childhood  before  you.  You  will  not  be  very 
happy;  but  you  will  be  interested  and  amused  by  the 
novelty  of  the  world;  and  your  companions  here  will 
teach  you  how  to  keep  up  an  imitation  of  happiness  dur- 
ing your  four  years  by  what  they  call  arts  and  sports 
and  pleasures.  The  worst  of  your  troubles  is  already 
over. 

THE  NEWLY  BO  EN.     What!    In  five  miuutes  ? 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  No :  you  have  been  growing  for 
two  years  in  the  egg.  You  began  by  being  several  sorts 
of  creatures  that  no  longer  exist,  though  we  have  fossils 
of  them.  Then  you  became  human;  and  you  passed  in 
fifteen  months  through  -a  development  that  once  cost 
human  beings  twenty  years  of  awkward  stumbling  im- 
maturity after  they  were  born.  They  had  to  spend  fifty 
years  more  in  the  sort  of  childhood  you  will  complete  in 
four  years.  And  then  they  died  of  decay.  But  you 
need  not  die  until  your  accident  comes. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.     What  IS  my  accident? 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  Sooner  or  later  you  will  fall  and 
break  your  neck ;  or  a  tree  will  fall  on  you ;  or  you  will 
be  struck  by  lightning.  Something  or  other  must  make 
an  end  of  you  someday. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  But  why  should  any  of  these 
things  happen  to  me? 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  There  is  no  why.  They  do. 
Everything  happens  to  everybody  sooner  or  later  if 
there  is  time  enough.    And  with  us  there  is  eternity. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  Nothing  need  happen.  I  never 
heard  such  nonsense  in  all  my  life.  I  should  know  how 
to  take  care  of  myself. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.     So  you  think. 


250        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach       Part  V 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  I  dont  think:  I  know.  I  shall 
cnjoj  life  for  ever  and  ever. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  If  jou  should  tum  out  to  be  a 
person  of  infinite  capacity,  you  will  no  doubt  find  life 
infinitely  interesting.  However,  all  you  have  to  do  now 
is  to  play  with  your  companions.  They  have  many 
pretty  toys,  as  you  see:  a  playhouse,  pictures,  images, 
flowers,  bright  fabrics,  music :  above  all,  themselves ;  for 
the  most  amusing  child's  toy  is  another  child.  At  the 
end  of  four  years,  your  mind  will  change:  you  wiU  be- 
come wise;  and  then  you  will  be  entrusted  with  power. 

THE  NEWLY  BOEN.     But  I  Want  power  now. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  No  doubt  you  do ;  so  that  you 
could  play  with  the  world  by  tearing  it  to  pieces. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  Only  to  sce  how  it  is  made.  I 
should  put  it  all  together  again  much  better  than  before. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  There  was  a  time  when  children 
were  given  the  world  to  play  with  because  they  promised 
to  improve  it.  They  did  not  improve  it;  and  they 
would  have  wrecked  it  had  their  power  been  as  great  as 
that  which  you  will  wield  when  you  are  no  longer  a  child. 
Until  your  young  companions  will  instruct  you  in  what- 
ever is  necessary.  You  are  not  forbidden  to  speak  to 
the  ancients ;  but  you  had  better  not  do  so,  as  most  of 
them  have  long  ago  exhausted  all  the  interest  there  is 
in  observing  children  and  conversing  with  them.  \^She 
turns  to  go'} . 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  Walt.  Tell  me  some  things  that 
I  ought  to  do  and  ought  not  to  do.  I  feel  the  need  of 
education. 

They  all  laugh  at  her,  except  the  She- Ancient, 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  You  will  have  grown  out  of  that 
by  tomorrow.  Do  what  you  please,  [She  goes  away  up 
the  hill  path"] . 


Part  V    As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach         251 

The  officials  take  their  paraphernalia  and  the  frag- 
ments of  the  egg  back  into  the  temple. 

ACis.  Just  fancy:  that  old  girl  has  been  going  for 
seven  hundred  years  and  hasnt  had  her  fatal  accident 
yet ;  and  she  is  not  a  bit  tired  of  it  all. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  How  could  anyone  ever  get  tired 
of  life.? 

ACIS.  They  do.  That  is,  of  the  same  life.  They 
manage  to  change  themselves  in  a  wonderful  way.  You 
meet  them  sometimes  with  a  lot  of  extra  heads  and  arms 
and  legs :  they  make  you  split  laughing  at  them.  Most 
of  them  ha\'^  forgotten  how  to  speak:  the  ones  that 
attend  to  us  have  to  brush  up  their  knowledge  of  the 
language  once  a  year  or  so.  Nothing  makes  any  dif- 
ference to  them  that  I  can  see.  They  never  enjoy  them- 
selves. I  dont  know  how  they  can  stand  it.  They  dont 
even  come  to  our  festivals  of  the  arts.  That  old  one 
who  saw  you  out  of  your  shell  has  gone  off  to  moodle 
about  doing  nothing;  tihough  she  knows  that  this  is 
Festival  Day. 

THE  NEWI.Y  BORN.     What  is  Festival  Day? 

ACis.  Two  of  our  greatest  sculptors  are  bringing  us 
their  latest  masterpieces ;  and  we  are  going  to  crown 
them  with  flowers  and  sing  dithyrambs  to  them  and  dance 
round  them. 

THE  NEWT.Y  BORN.     Howjolly!    What  IS  a  sculptor  ? 

ACIS.  Listen  here,  young  one.  You  mus<t  find  out 
things  for  yourself,  and  not  ask  questions.  For  the  first 
day  or  two  you  must  keep  your  eyes  and  ears  open  and 
your  mouth  shut.    Children  should  be  seen  and  not  heard. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  Who  are  you  calling  a  dliild.?  I 
am  fully  quarter  of  an  hour  old.  iShe  sits  down  on  the 
curved  bench  near  Strephon  with  her  mature st  air~\. 

VOICES  IN  THE  TEMPLE  [flW  expTcssing  protcst,  disap- 
pointment, disgusti  Oh!    Oh!    Scandalous.     Shameful. 


252        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach       Part  V 

Disgraceful.  What  filth !  Is  this  a  joke?  Why,  theyre 
ancients!  Ss-s-s-sss!  Are  you  mad,  Arjillax?  This  is 
an  outrage.  An  insult.  Yah !  etc.  etc.  etc.  [^The  mal- 
contents appear  on  the  steps,  grumbling^. 

Acis.  Hullo:  whats  the  matter?  [^He  goes  to  the 
steps  of  the  temple^ . 

The  two  sculptors  issue  from  the  temple.  One  has  a 
heard  two  feet  long:  the  other  is  beardless.  Between 
them  comes  a  handsome  nymph  with  marked  features, 
dark  hair  richly  waved,  and  authoritative  bearing. 

THE   AUTHOR ATATIVE   NYMPH    [sWOOplng  doWU    tO    the 

centre  of  the  glade  with  the  sculptors,  between  Acis  and 
the  Newly  Born'\  Do  not  try  to  browbeat  me,  Arjillax, 
merely  because  you  are  clever  with  your  hands.  Can  you 
play  the  flute? 

AEJiLLAX  [the  bearded  sculptor  on  her  right]  No, 
Ecrasia:  I  cannot.  What  has  that  to  do  with  it?  [He 
is  half  derisive,  half  impatient,  wholly  resolved  not  to 
take  her  seriously  in  spite  of  her  beauty  and  imposing 
tone] . 

ECRASIA.  Well,  have  you  ever  hesitated  to  criticize 
our  best  flute  players,  and  to  declare  whether  their  music 
is  good  or  bad?  Pray  have  I  not  the  same  right  to 
criticize  your  busts,  though  I  cannot  make  images  any 
more  than  you  can  play? 

ARJILLAX.  Any  fool  can  play  the  flute,  or  play  any- 
thing else,  if  he  practises  enough;  but  sculpture  is  a 
creative  art,  not  a  mere  business  of  whistling  into  a  pipe. 
The  sculptor  must  have  something  of  the  god  in  him. 
From  his  hand  comes  a  form  which  reflects  a  spirit.  He 
does  not  make  it  to  please  you,  nor  even  to  please  him- 
self, but  because  he  must.  You  must  take  what  he  gives 
you,  or  leave  it  if  you  are  not  worthy  of  it. 

ECRASIA  [scornfully']  Not  worthy  of  it !  Ho !  May  I 
not  leave  it  because  it  is  not  worthy  of  me? 


Part  V     As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach  253 

ARJiLLAX.  Of  you!  Hold  jour  silly  tongue,  jou 
conceited  humbug.    What  do  you  know  about  it  ? 

ECRASiA.  I  know  what  every  person  of  culture 
knows :  that  the  business  of  the  artist  is  to  create  beauty. 
Until  today  j^our  works  have  been  full  of  beauty ;  and  I 
have  been  the  first  to  point  that  out. 

ARJILLAX.  Thank  you  for  nothing.  People  have 
eyes,  havnt  they,  to  see  what  is  as  plain  as  the  sun  in 
the  heavens  without  your  pointing  it  out? 

ECRASiA.  You  were  very  glad  to  have  it  pointed  out. 
You  did  not  call  me  a  conceited  humbug  then.  You 
stifled  me  with  caresses.  You  modelled  me  as  the  genius 
of  art  presiding  over  the  infancy  of  your  master  here 
^indicating  the  other  sculptor^,  Martellus. 

MARTELLUs  [<2  sHent  and  meditative  listener,  shudders 
and  shakes  his  heady  but  says  nothing~\ . 

ARJILLAX  [quarrelsomely^  I  was  taken  in  by  your 
talk. 

ECRASIA.  I  discovered  your  genius  before  anyone 
else  did.    Is  that  true,  or  is  it  not? 

ARJILLAX.  Everybody  knew  I  was  an  extraordinary 
person.    When  I  was  born  my  beard  was  three  feet  long. 

ECRASIA.  Yes;  and  it  has  shrunk  from  three  feet  to 
two.  Your  genius  seems  to  have  been  in  the  last  foot  of 
your  beard ;  for  you  have  los-t  both. 

MARTELLUS  [mith  a  short  sardonic  cachinnation~\  He ! 
My  beard  was  three  and  a  half  feet  long  when  I  was 
born ;  and  a  flash  of  lightning  burnt  it  off^  and  killed  the 
ancient  who  was  delivering  me.  Without  a  hair  on  my 
chin  I  became  the  greatest  sculptor  in  ten  generations. 

ECRASIA.  And  yet  you  come  to  us  today  with  empty 
hands.  We  shall  actually  have  to  crown  Arjillax  here 
because  no  other  sculptor  is  exhibiting. 

ACis  [returning  from  the  temple  steps  to  behind  the 
curved  seat  on  the  right  of  the  three']  Whats  the  row, 


254        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach       Part  V 

Ecrasia?      W'hy  have  you  fallen   out  with  Arjillax? 

ECEASiA.  He  has  insulted  me !  outraged  us !  profaned 
his  art !  You  know  how  much  we  hoped  from  the  twelve 
busts  he  placed  in  the  temple  to  be  unveiled  today.  Well, 
go  in  and  look  at  them.  That  is  all  I  have  to  say. 
\_Ske  sweeps  to  the  curved  seat,  and  sits  down  where  Acts 
is  leaning  over  if]. 

Acis.  I  am  no  great  judge  of  sculpture.  Art  is  not 
my  line.     What  is  wrong  with  the  busts? 

ECRASIA.  Wrong  with  them !  Instead  of  being  ideally 
beautiful  nymphs  and  youths,  they  are  horribly  realistic 
studies  of — but  I  really  cannot  bring  my  lips  to  utter  it. 

The  Newly  Born^  full  of  curiosity,  runs  to  the  temple, 
and  peeps  in. 

ACIS.  Oh,  stow  it,  Ecrasia.  Your  lips  are  not  so 
squeamish  as  all  that.    Studies  of  what  ? 

THE  NEWLY  BORN  \_from  the  temple  steps']  Ancients. 

ACIS   [surprised  but  not  scandalized]   Ancients! 

ECRASIA.  Yes,  ancients.  The  one  subject  that  is  by 
the  universal  consent  of  all  our  connoisseurs  absolutely 
excluded  from  the  fine  arts.  [^To  Arjillax]  How  can 
you  defend  such  a  proceeding? 

ARJILLAX.  If  you  come  to  that,  what  interest  can 
you  find  in  the  statues  of  smirking  nymphs  and  postur- 
ing youths  you  stick  up  all  over  the  place? 

ECRASIA.  You  did  not  ask  that  w'hen  your  hand  was 
still  skilful  enough  to  model  them. 

ARJILLAX.  Skilful !  You  high-nosed  idiot,  I  could 
turn  suoh  things  out  by  the  score  with  my  eyes  bandaged 
and  one  hand  tied  behind  me.  But  what  use  would  they 
be?  They  would  bore  me;  and  they  would  bore  you  if 
you  had  any  sense.  Go  in  and  look  at  my  busts.  Look 
at  them  again  and  yet  again  until  you  receive  the  full 
impression  of  the  intensity  of  mind  that  is  stamped  on 
them;  and  then  go  back  to  the  pretty-pretty  confec- 


Part  V     As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach  255 

tionery  you  call  sculpture,  and  see  whether  you  can 
endure  its  vapid  emptiness.  [He  mounts  the  altar  im^ 
petiiously^  Listen  to  me,  all  of  you;  and  do  jou, 
Ecrasia,  be  silent  if  you  are  capable  of  silence. 

ECRASiA.  Silence  is  the  most  perfect  expression  of 
scorn.  Scorn !  That  is  what  I  feel  for  your  revolting 
busts. 

AR jiLLAX.  Fool :  the  busts  are  only  the  beginning  of 
a  mighty  design.    Listen. 

ACis.     Go  ahead,  old  sport.     We  are  listening. 

Martellus  stretches  himself  on  the  sward  heside  the 
altar.  The  Newly  Born  sits  on  the  temple  steps  with  her 
chin  on  her  hands,  ready  to  devour  the  first  oration  she 
has  ever  heard.     The  rest  sit  or  stand  at  ease. 

ARJiLLAX.  In  the  records  which  generations  of  chil- 
dren have  rescued  from  the  stupid  neglect  of  the 
ancients,  there  has  come  down  to  us  a  fable  w'hich,  like 
many  fables,  is  not  a  thing  that  was  done  in  the  past,  but 
a  thing  that  is  to  be  done  in  the  future.  It  is  a  legend 
of  a  supernatural  being  called  the  Archangel  Michael. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  Is  this  a  story  ?  I  want  to  hear  a 
story.  [She  runs  down  the  steps  and  sits  on  the  altar  at 
ArjiUax^s  feet'], 

ARjiLLAX.  The  Archangel  Michael  wag  a  mighty 
sculptor  and  painter.  He  found  in  the  centre  of  the 
world  a  temple  erected  to  the  goddess  of  the  centre, 
called  Mediterranea.  This  temple  was  full  of  silly  pic- 
tures of  pretty  children,  such  as  Ecrasia  approves. 

ACIS.  Fair  play,  Arjillax!  If  she  is  to  keep  silent, 
let  her  alone. 

ECRASIA.  I  s'hall  not  interrupt,  Acis.  Why  should  I 
not  prefer  youth  and  beauty  to  age  and  ugliness.? 

ARJILLAX.  Just  so.  Well,  the  Archangel  Michael 
was  of  my  opinion,  not  yours.  He  began  by  painting 
on  the  ceiling  the  newly  born  in  all  their  childish  beauty. 


256        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach       Part  V 

But  when  he  had  done  this  he  was  not  satisfied ;  for  the 
temple  was  no  more  impressive  than  it  had  been  before, 
except  that  there  was  a  strength  and  promise  of  greater 
things  about  his  newly  born  ones  than  any  other  artist 
had  attained  to.  So  he  painted  all  round  these  newly 
born  a  company  of  ancients,  w'ho  were  in  those  days 
called  prophets  and  sy^bils,  whose  majesty  was  that  of  the 
mind  alone  at  its  intenses't.  And  this  painting  was  ack- 
nowledged through  ages  and  ages  to  be  the  summit  and 
masterpiece  of  art.  Of  course  we  cannot  believe  such  a 
tale  literally.  It  is  only  a  legend.  We  do  not  believe  in 
archangels ;  and  the  notion  that  thirty  thousand  years 
ago  sculpture  and  painting  existed,  and  had  even 
reached  the  glorious  perfection  they  have  reached  with 
us,  is  absurd.  But  what  men  cannot  realize  they  can 
at  least  aspire  to.  They  please  themselves  by  pretend- 
ing that  it  was  realized  in  a  golden  age  of  the  past. 
This  splendid  legend  endured  because  it  lived  as  a  desire 
in  the  hearts  of  the  greatest  artists.  The  temple  of 
Mediterranea  never  was  built  in  the  past,  nor  did  Michael 
the  Archangel  exist.  But  today  the  temple  is  here  [^he 
points  to  the  porch]  ;  and  the  man  is  here  [he  slaps  him- 
self on  the  chest].  I,  Arjillax,  am  the  man.  I  will  place 
in  your  theatre  such  images  of  the  newly  born  as  must 
satisfy  even  Ecrasia's  appetite  for  beauty;  and  I  will 
surround  them  with  ancients  more  august  than  any  who 
walk  through  our  woods. 

MARTELLus  [as  heforcl  Ha! 

ARJILLAX  [^stung]  Why  do  you  laugh,  you  who  have 
come  empty-handed,  and,  it  seems,  empty-headed? 

ECRASiA  [rising  indignantly]  Oh,  shame!  You  dare 
disparage  Martellus,  twenty  times  your  master. 

Acis..  Be  quiet,  will  you  [he  seizes  her  shoulders  and 
thrusts  her  hack  into  her  seat']. 

MARTELLUS.     Let    him    disparage    his    fill,    Ecrasia. 


Part  V    As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach         257 

[Sitting  up^  My  poor  Arjillax,  I  too  had  this  dream. 
I  too  found  one  day  that  my  images  of  lovehness  had 
become  vapid,  uninteresting,  tedious,  a  waste  of  time 
and  materiaL  I  too  lost  my  desire  to  model  limbs,  and 
retained  only  my  interest  in  heads  and  faces.  I,  too, 
made  busts  of  ancients ;  but  I  had  not  your  courage :  I 
made  them  in  secret,  and  hid  them  from  you  all. 

ARJILLAX  [jumping  down  from  the  altar  behind  Mar- 
tellus  in  his  surprise  and  excitements^  You  made  busts  of 
ancients!  Where  are  they,  man?  Will  you  be  talked 
out  of  your  inspiration  by  Ecrasia  and  the  fools  who 
imagine  she  speaks  with  authority?  Let  us  have  them 
all  set  up  beside  mine  in  the  theatre.  I  have  opened  the 
way  for  you ;  and  you  see  I  am  none  the  worse. 

MARTELLus.  Impossible.  They  are  all  smashed. 
[He  rises,  laughing^, 

ALL.     Smashed ! 

ARJILLAX.     Who  smashed  them? 

MARTELLUS.  I  did.  That  is  why  I  laughed  at  you 
just  now.  You  will  smash  yours  before  you  have  com- 
pleted a  dozen  of  them.  [He  goes  to  the  end  of  the  altar 
and  sits  down  beside  the  Newly  Bornli . 

ARJILLAX.     But  why? 

MARTELLUS.  Beoausc  you  cannot  give  them  life.  A 
live  ancient  is  better  than  a  dead  statue.  [He  takes  the 
Newly  Born  on  his  knee:  she  is  flattered  and  voluptu- 
ously responsive^.  Anything  alive  is  better  than  any- 
thing that  is  only  pretending  to  be  alive.  [To  Arjillax] 
Your  disillusion  with  your  works  of  beauty  is  only  the 
beginning  of  your  disillusion  with  images  of  all  sorts. 
As  your  hand  became  more  skilful  and  your  chisel  cut 
deeper,  you  strove  to  get  nearer  and  nearer  to  truth  and 
reality,  discarding  the  fleeting  fleshly  lure,  and  making 
images  of  the  mind  that  fascinates  to  the  end.  But  how 
can  so  noble  an  inspiration  be  satisfied  with  any  image, 


258        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach       Part  V 

even  an  image  of  the  truth?  In  the  end  the  intellectual 
conscience  that  tore  you  away  from  the  fleeting  in  art 
to  the  eternal  must  tear  you  away  from  art  altogether, 
because  art  is  false  and  life  alone  is  true. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN  [fliugs  her  arms  round  his  neck  and 
kisses  him  enthusiastically^, 

MARTELLus  [Hses ;  carries  her  to  the  curved  bench  on 
his  left;  deposits  her  beside  Strephon  as  if  she  were  his 
overcoat;  and  continues  without  the  least  change  of 
tone^  Shape  it  as  you  will,  marble  remains  marble,  and 
the  graven  image  an  idol.  As  I  have  broken  my  idols, 
and  cast  away  my  chisel  and  modelling  tools,  so  will  you 
too  break  these  busts  of  yours. 

ARjiLLAX.     Never. 

MARTELLus.  Wait,  my  friend.  I  do  not  come  empty- 
handed  today,  as  you  imagined.  On  the  contrary,  I 
bring  with  me  such  a  work  of  art  as  you  have  never  seen, 
and  an  artist  who  has  surpassed  both  you  and  me 
further  than  we  have  surpassed  all  our  competitors. 

ECRASiA.  Impossible.  The  greatest  things  in  art  can 
never  be  surpassed. 

ARJiiiiiAX.  Who  is  this  paragon  whom  you  declare 
greater  than  I? 

MARTELLUS.  I  declare  him  greater  than  myself, 
Arj  illax. 

ARJiLLAX  Ifrowning']  I  understand.  Sooner  than  not 
drown  me,  you  are  willing  to  clasp  me  round  the  waist 
and  jump  overboard  with  me. 

ACis.  Oh,  stop  squabbling.  That  is  the  worst  of  you 
artists.  You  are  always  in  little  squabbling  cliques ;  and 
the  worst  cliques  are  those  whidh  consist  of  one  man. 
Who  is  this  new  fellow  you  are  throwing  in  one  an- 
other's teeth.? 

ARJILLAX.     Ask  Martellus:  do  not  ask  me.     I  know 


Part  V    As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach  259 

nothing  of  him.     \_He  leaves  Martellus,  and  sits  down 
beside  Ecrasia,  on  her  left] . 

MARTELLUS.      You  know  him  quite  well.     Pygmalion. 

ECRASiA  \_indignantl2/]  Pygmalion!  That  soulless 
creature !    A  scientist !    A  laboratory  person ! 

ARjiLLAx.  Pygmalion  produce  a  work  of  art!  You 
have  los^•  ^  -ar  artistic  senses.  The  man  is  utterly  in- 
cap^/oie  of  modelling  a  thumb  nail,  let  alone  a  human 
figure. 

MARTELLUS.  That  does  not  matter :  I  have  done  the 
modelling  for  him. 

ARJILLAX.     What  on  earth  do  you  mean? 

MARTELLUS  [calling~\  Pygmalion :  come  forth. 

Pygmalion,  a  square-fingered  youth  with  his  face 
laid  out  in  horizontal  blocks ,  and  a  perpetual  smile  of 
eager  benevolent  interest  in  everything,  and  expectation 
of  equal  interest  from  everybody  else,  comes  from  the 
temple  to  the  centre  of  the  group,  mho  regard  him  for 
the  most  part  with  dismay,  as  dreading  that  he  will  bore 
them,     Ecrasia  is  openly  contemptuous, 

MARTELLUS.  Friends:  it  is  unfortunate  that  Pyg- 
malion is  constitutionally  incapable  of  exhibiting  any- 
thing without  first  giving  a  lecture  about  it  to  explain 
it ;  but  I  promise  you  that  if  you  will  be  patient  he  will 
shew  you  the  two  most  wonderful  works  of  art  in  the 
world,  and  that  they  will  contain  some  of  my  own  very 
best  workmanship.  Let  me  add  that  they  will  inspire  a 
loathing  that  will  cure  you  of  the  lunacy  of  art  for  ever. 
\_He  sits  down  next  the  Newly  Born,  who  pouts  and 
turns  a  very  cold  right  shoulder  to  him,  a  demonstration 
utterly  lost  to  hint], 

Pygmalion,  with  the  smUe  of  a  simpleton,  and  the 
eager  confidence  of  a  fanatical  scientist,  climbs  awk- 
wardly on  to  the  altar.     They  prepare  for  the  worst. 


260        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach       Part  V 

PYGMALION.     Mj  friends:  I  will  omit  the  algebra — 

ACis.     Thank  God! 

PYGMALION  \_continuing'] — because  Martellus  has 
made  me  promise  to  do  so.  To  come  to  the  point,  I  have 
succeeded  in  making  artificial  human  beings.  Real  live 
ones,  I  mean, 

INCREDULOUS  VOICES.  Oh,  come !  Tell  us  another. 
Really,  Pyg!     Get  out.    You  havnt.    What  a  lie! 

PYGMALION.  I  tell  you  I  have.  I  will  shew  them  to 
you.  It  has  been  done  before.  One  of  the  very  oldest 
documents  we  possess  mentions  a  tradition  of  a  biolo- 
gist who  extracted  certain  unspecified  minerals  from  the 
earth  and,  as  it  quaintly  expresses  it,  "breathed  into 
their  nostrils  the  breath  of  life."  This  is  the  only  tra- 
dition from  the  primitive  ages  which  we  can  regard  as 
really  scientific.  There  are  later  documents  which 
specify  the  minerals  with  great  precision,  even  to  their 
atomic  weights;  but  they  are  utterly  unscientific,  be- 
cause they  overlook  the  element  of  life  which  makes  all 
the  difference  between  a  mere  mixture  of  salts  and  gases 
Rnd  a  living  organism.  These  mixtures  were  made  over 
and  over  again  in  the  crude  laboratories  of  the  Silly- 
Clever  Ages;  but  nothing  came  of  them  until  the  in- 
gredient which  the  old  chronicler  called  the  breath  of  life 
was  added  by  this  very  remarkable  early  experimenter. 
In  my  view  he  was  the  founder  of  biological  science. 

ARjiLLAX,  Is  that  all  we  know  about  him?  It 
doesnt  amount  to  very  much,  does  it.? 

PYGMALION.  There  are  some  fragments  of  pictures 
and  documents  whidh  represent  him  as  walking  in  a 
garden  and  advising  people  to  cultivate  their  gardens. 
His  name  has  come  down  to  us  in  several  forms.  One 
of  them  is  Jove.    Another  is  Voltaire. 

ECRAsiA.  You  are  boring  us  to  distraction  with  your 
Voltaire.    What  about  your  human  beings  ? 


Part  V    As  Far  As  Thouerht  Can  Reach  261 


to' 


AR jiLLAX.     Aye :  come  to  them. 

PYGMALION.  I  assure  you  that  these  details  are  in- 
tensely interesting.  ICries  of  No!  They  are  not! 
Come  to  the  human  beings !  Conspuez  Voltaire !  Cut  it 
short,  Pyg!  interrupt  him  from  all  sides'].  You  will  see 
their  bearing  presently.  I  promise  you  I  will  not  detain 
you  long.  We  know,  we  children  of  science,  that  the 
universe  is  full  of  forces  and  powers  and  energies  of  one 
kind  and  another.  The  sap  rising  in  a  tree,  the  stone 
holding  together  in  a  definite  crystalline  structure,  the 
thought  of  a  philosopher  holding  his  brain  in  form  and 
operation  with  an  inconceivably  powerful  grip,  the  urge 
of  evolution:  all  these  forces  can  be  used  by  us.  For 
instance,  I  use  the  force  of  gravitation  when  I  put  a 
stone  on  my  tunic  to  prevent  it  being  blown  away  when 
I  am  bathing.  By  substituting  appropriate  machines 
for  the  stone  we  have  made  not  only  gravitation  our 
slave,  but  also  electricity  and  magnetism,  atomic  attrac- 
tion, repulsion,  polarization,  and  so  forth.  But  hitherto 
the  vital  force  has  eluded  us;  so  it  has  had  to  create 
machinery  for  itself.  It  has  created  and  developed  bony 
structures  of  the  requisite  strength,  and  clothed  them 
with  cellular  tissue  of  such  amazing  sensitiveness  that 
the  organs  it  forms  will  adapt  their  action  to  all  the 
normal  variations  in  the  air  they  breathe,  the  food  they 
digest,  and  the  circumstances  about  which  they  have  to 
think.  Yet,  as  these  live  bodies,  as  we  call  them,  are 
only  machines  after  all,  it  must  be  possible  to  construct 
them  mechanically. 

ARjiLLAX.  Everything  is  possible.  Have  you  done 
it?  that  is  the  question. 

PYGMALION.  Yes.  But  that  is  a  mere  fact.  What 
is  interesting  is  the  explanation  of  the  fact.  Forgive 
my  saying  so ;  but  it  is  such  a  pity  that  you  artists  have 
no  intellect. 


262        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach       Part  V 

ECRASiA  [sententiouslyl  I  do  not  admit  that.  The 
artist  divines  by  inspiration  all  the  truths  that  the  so- 
called  scientist  grubs  up  in  his  laboratory  slowly  and 
stupidly  long  afterwards. 

ARjiLLAX  [to  Ecrasia,  quarrelsomely]  What  do  you 
know  about  it  ?    You  are  not  an  artist. 

Acis.  Shut  your  heads,  both  of  you.  Let  us  have 
the  artificial  men.     Trot  them  out,  Pygmialion. 

PYGMALION.  It  is  a  man  and  a  woman.  But  I  really 
must  explain  first. 

ALL  [^groaningl !  !  ! 

PYGMALION.     Yes:  I — 

ACIS.     We  want  results,  not  explanations. 

PYGMALION  [hurt]  I  see  I  am  boring  you.  Not  one  of 
you  takes  the  least  interest  in  science.  Good-bye.  [He 
descends  from  the  altar  and  makes  for  the  temple] . 

SEVERAL  YOUTHS  AND  MAIDENS  [rising  and  rushing  to 
him^  No,  no.  Dont  go.  Dont  be  offended.  We  want 
to  see  the  artificial  pair.  We  will  listen.  We  are  tre- 
mendously interested.    Tell  us  all  about  it. 

PYGMALION  [relenting]  I  shall  not  detain  you  two 
minutes. 

ALL.  Half  an  hour  if  you  like.  Please  go  on,  Pyg- 
malion. [They  rush  him  back  to  the  altar,  and  hoist 
him  up  on  to  it].     Up  you  go. 

They  return  to  their  former  places, 

PYGMALION.  As  I  told  you,  lots  of  attempts  were 
made  to  produce  protoplasm  in  the  laboratory.  Why 
were  these  synthetic  plasms,  as  they  called  them,  no  use? 

ECRASIA.     We  are  waiting  for  you  to  tell  us. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN  [modelling  herself  on  Ecrasia,  and 
trying  to  outdo  her  intellectually]  Clearly  because  they 
were  dead. 

PYGMALION.  Not  bad  for  a  baflby,  my  pet.  But  dead 
and  alive  are  very  loose  terms.     You  are  not  half  as 


Part  V    As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach  268^ 

much  alive  as  you  will  be  in  another  month  or  so.  What 
was  wrong  with  the  synthetic  protoplasm  was  that  it 
could  not  fix  and  conduct  the  Life  Force.  It  was  like  a 
wooden  magnet  or  a  lig-htning  conductor  made  of  silk: 
it  would  not  take  the  current. 

ACis.  Nobody  but  a  fool  would  make  a  wooden  mag- 
net, and  expect  it  to  attract  anything. 

PYGMALION.  He  might  if  he  were  so  ignorant  as  not 
to  be  able  to  distinguish  between  wood  and  soft  iron.  In 
those  days  they  were  very  ignorant  of  the  differences 
between  things,  because  their  methods  of  analysis  were 
crude.  They  mixed  up  messes  that  were  so  like  proto- 
plasm that  they  could  not  tell  the  difference.  But  the 
difference  was  there,  though  their  analysis  was  too 
superficial  and  incomplete  to  detect  it.  You  must  re- 
member that  these  poor  devils  were  very  little  better  than 
our  idiots :  we  should  never  dream  of  letting  one  of  them 
survive  the  day  of  its  birth.  Why,  the  Newly  Born 
there  already  knows  by  instinct  many  things  that  their 
greatest  physicists  could  hardly  arrive  at  by  forty 
years  of  strenuous  study.  Her  simple  direct  sense  of 
space-time  and  quantity  unconsciously  solves  problems 
which  cost  their  most  famous  mathematicians  years  of 
prolonged  and  laborious  calculations  requiring  such  in- 
tense mental  application  that  they  frequently  forgot  to 
breathe  when  engaged  in  them,  and  almost  suffocated 
themselves  in  consequence. 

ECRASiA.  Leave  these  obscure  prehistoric  abortions; 
and  come  Iback  to  your  synthetic  man  and  woman. 

PYGMALION.  When  I  undertook  the  task  of  making 
synthetic  men,  I  did  not  waste  my  time  on  protoplasm. 
It  was  evident  to  me  that  if  it  were  possible  to  make 
protoplasm  in  the  laboratory,  it  must  be  equally  pos- 
sible to  begin  hig-her  up  and  make  fully  evolved  muscular 
and  nervous  tissues,  bone,  and  so  forth.    Why  make  the 


264        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach       Part  V 

seed  w<hen  the  making  of  the  flower  would  be  no  greater 
miracle?  I  tried  thousands  of  combinations  before  I 
succeeded  in  producing  anything  that  would  fix  high- 
potential  Life  Force. 

AEJiLLAX.     High  what? 

PYGMALION.  High-po-tential.  .  The  Life  Force  is  not 
so  simple  as  you  think.  A  high-potential  current  of  it 
will  turn  a  bit  of  dead  tissue  into  a  philosopher's  brain. 
A  low-potential  current  will  reduce  the  same  bit  of  tis- 
sue to  a  mass  of  corruption.  Will  you  believe  me  when  I 
tell  you  that,  even  in  man  himself,  the  Life  Force  used 
to  slip  suddenly  down  from  its  human  level  to  that  of  a 
fungus,  so  that  men  found  their  flesh  no  longer  growing 
■as  flesh,  but  proliferating  horribly  in  a  lower  form  which 
was  called  cancer,  until  the  lower  form  of  life  killed  the 
higher,  and  both  perished  together  miserably? 

MAIITEI.I.US.  Keep  off  the  primitive  tribes,  Pyg- 
malion. They  interest  you ;  but  they  bore  these  young 
things. 

PYGMALION.  I  am  only  trying  to  make  you  under- 
stand. There  was  the  Life  Force  raging  all  round  me : 
there  was  I,  trying  to  make  organs  that  would  capture 
it  as  a  battery  captures  electricity,  and  tissues  that 
would  conduct  it  and  operate  it.  It  was  easy  enough  to 
make  eyes  more  perfect  than  our  own,  and  ears  with  a 
larger  range  of  sound;  but  they  could  neither  see  nor 
hear,  because  they  were  not  susceptible  to  the  Life 
Force.  But  it  was  far  worse  when  I  discovered  how  to 
make  them  susceptible;  for  the  first  thing  that  hap- 
pened was  that  they  ceased  to  be  eyes  and  ears  and 
turned  into  heaps  of  maggots. 

ECRASiA.     Disgusting !    Please  stop. 

Acis.  If  you  dont  want  to  hear,  go  away.  You  go 
ahead,  Pyg. 

PYGMALION.     I    went    ahead.      You    see,    the    lower 


Part  V     As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach  265 

potentials  of  the  Life  Force  could  make  maggots,  but 
not  human  eyes  or  ears.  I  improved  the  tissue  until  it 
was  susceptible  to  a  higher  potential. 

ARjiLLAX  [intensely  interested]  Yes;  and  then? 

PYGMALION.  Then  the  eyes  and  ears  turned  into 
cancers. 

ECEASiA.     Oh,  hideous! 

PYGMALION.  Not  at  all.  That  was  a  great  advance. 
It  encouraged  me  so  much  that  I  put  aside  the  eyes  and 
ears,  and  made  a  brain.  It  wouldnt  take  the  Life  Force 
at  all  until  I  had  altered  its  constitution  a  dozen  times ; 
but  when  it  did,  it  took  a  much  higher  potential,  and 
did  not  dissolve ;  and  neither  did  the  eyes  and  ears  when 
I  connected  them  up  with  the  brain.  I  was  able  to  make 
a  sort  of  monster :  a  thing  without  arms  or  legs ;  and  it 
really  and  truly  lived  for  half-an-hour. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  Half-au-hour !  What  good  was 
that.?    Why  did  it  die? 

PYGMALION.  Its  blood  WCUt  WTOUg.  But  I  got  that 
right;  and  then  I  went  ahead  with  a  complete  human 
body :  arms  and  legs  and  all.    He  was  my  first  man. 

ARjiLLAX.     Who  modelled  him? 

PYGMALION.     I  did. 

MARTELLus.  Do  you  mean  to  S'ay  you  tried  your  own 
hand  before  you  sent  for  me? 

PYGMALION.  Bless  you,  yes,  several  times.  My  first 
man  was  the  ghastliest  creature:  a  more  dreadful  mix- 
ture of  horror  and  absurdity  than  you  who  have  not  seen 
him  can  conceive. 

ARJILLAX.  If  you  modelled  him,  he  must  indeed  have 
been  a  spectacle. 

PYGMALION.  Oh,  it  was  not  his  shape.  You  see  I  did 
not  invent  that.  I  took  actual  measurements,  and 
moulds  from  my  own  body.     Sculptors  do  that  some- 


266        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach       Part  V 


t>' 


times,    you    know;    though    they    pretend    they    dont. 

MARTELLUS.       Hm. 
AR JILLAX.      Hah ! 

PYGMALION.  He  was  all  right  to  look  at,  at  first,  or 
nearly  so.  But  he  behaved  in  the  most  appalling  man- 
ner ;  and  the  subsequent  developments  were  so  disgusting 
that  I  really  cannot  describe  them  to  you.  He  seized  all 
sorts  of  things  and  swallowed  them.  He  drank  every 
fluid  in  the  laboratory.  I  tried  to  explain  to  him  that  he 
must  take  nothing  that  he  could  not  digest  and  assimi- 
late completely;  but  of  course  he  could  not  understand 
me.  He  assimilated  a  little  of  what  he  swallowed;  but 
the  process  left  horrible  residues  which  he  had  no  means 
of  getting  rid  of.  His  blood  turned  to  poison;  and  he 
perished  in  torments,  howling.  I  then  perceived  that  I 
had  produced  a  prehistoric  man;  for  there  are  certain 
traces  in  our  own  bodies  of  arrangements  which  enabled 
the  earlier  forms  of  mankind  to  renew  their  bodies  by 
swallowing  flesh  and  grains  and  vegetables  and  all  sorts 
of  unnatural  and  hideous  foods,  and  getting  rid  of  what 
they  could  not  digest. 

ECRASiA.  But  what  a  pity  he  died !  Wliat  a  glimpse 
of  the  past  we  have  lost !  He  could  have  told  us  stories 
of  the  Golden  Age. 

PYGMALION.  Not  he.  He  was  a  most  dangerous 
beast.  He  was  afraid  of  me,  and  actually  tried  to  kill 
me  by  snatching  up  things  and  striking  at  me  with 
them.  I  had  to  give  him  two  or  three  pretty  severe 
shocks  before  I  convinced  him  that  he  was  at  my  mercy. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  Why  did  you  not  make  a  woman 
instead  of  a  man?  She  would  have  known  how  to  be- 
have herself. 

MARTELLus.  Why  did  you  not  make  a  man  and  a 
woman?    Their  children  would  have  been  interesting. 

PYGMALION.     I  intended  to  make  a  woman ;  but  after 


Part  V     As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach  267 

my  experience  with  the  man  it  was  out  of  the  question. 

ECRASiA.     Pray  why? 

PYGMALION.  Well,  it  is  difficult  to  explain  if  you 
have  not  studied  prehistoric  methods  of  reproduction. 
You  see  the  only  sort  of  men  and  women  I  could  make 
were  men  and  women  just  like  us  as  far  as  their  bodies 
were  concerned.  That  was  how  I  killed  the  poor  beast 
of  a  man.  I  hadnt  provided  for  his  horrible  prehistoric 
methods  of  feeding  himself.  Suppose  the  woman  had 
reproduced  in  some  prehistoric  way  instead  of  being 
oviparous  as  we  are?  She  couldnt  have  done  it  with  a 
modern  female  body.  Besides,  the  experiment  might 
have  been  painful. 

ECRASIA.     Then  you  have  nothing  to  shew  us  at  all? 

PYGMALION.  Oh  yes  I  have.  I  am  not  so  easily 
beaten  as  that.  I  set  to  work  again  for  months  to  find 
out  how  to  make  a  digestive  system  that  would  deal  with 
waste  products  and  a  reproductive  system  capable  of 
internal  nourishment  and  incubation. 

ECRASIA.  Why  did  you  not  find  out  how  to  make  them 
like  us  ? 

STREPHON  [^crying  out  in  his  grief  for  the  first  time~\ 
Why  did  you  not  make  a  woman  whom  you  could  love? 
That  was  the  secret  you  needed. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  Oh  ycs.  How  truc !  How  great 
of  you,  darling  Strephon !  [She  hisses  him  impulsively^^ . 

STREPHON  [^passionatelyli  Let  me  alone. 

MARTELLus.     Control  your  reflexes,  child. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.     My  what ! 

MARTELLUS.  Your  reflexcs.  The  things  you  do  with- 
out thinking.  Pygmalion  is  going  to  shew  you  a  pair  of 
human  creatures  who  are  all  reflexes  and  nothing  else. 
Take  warning  by  them. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.     But  wont  they  be  alive,  like  us? 

PYGMALION.     That    is    a   very    difficult   question    to 


268        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach       Part  V 

answer,  my  dear.  I  confess  I  thought  at  first  I  had 
created  Hving  creatures ;  but  Martellus  declares  they  are 
only  automata.  But  then  Martellus  is  a  mystic :  /  am  a 
man  of  science.  He  draws  a  line  between  an  automaton 
and  a  living  organism.  I  cannot  draw  that  line  to  my 
own  satisfaction. 

MARTELLUS.  Your  artificial  men  have  no  self-con- 
trol.   They  only  respond  to  stimuli  from  without. 

PYGMALION.  But  they  are  conscious.  I  have  taught 
them  to  talk  and  read ;  and  now  they  tell  lies.  That  is 
so  very  lifelike. 

MAETELLUs.  Not  at  all.  If  they  were  alive  they 
would  tell  the  truth.  You  can  provoke  them  to  tell  any 
silly  lie ;  and  you  can  foresee  exactly  the  sort  of  lie  they 
will  tell.  Give  them  a  clip  below  the  knee,  and  they  will 
jerk  their  foot  forward.  Give  them  a  clip  in  their 
appetites  or  vanities  or  any  of  their  lusts  and  greeds, 
and  they  will  boast  and  lie,  and  affirm  and  deny,  and  hate 
and  love  without  the  slightest  regard  to  the  facts  that 
are  staring  them  in  the  face,  or  to  their  own  obvious 
limitations.     That  proves  that  they  are  automata. 

PYGMALION  \^unconvinced^  I  know,  dear  old  chap ;  but 
there  really  is  some  evidence  that  we  are  descended  from 
creatures  quite  as  limited  and  absurd  as  these.  After  all, 
the  baby  there  is  three-quarters  an  automaton.  Look 
at  the  way  she  has  been  going  on ! 

THE  NEWLY  BO  EN  [indignantly]  What  do  you  mean? 
How  have  I  been  going  on? 

ECEASiA.  If  they  have  no  regard  for  truth,  they  can 
have  no  real  vitality. 

PYGMALION.  Truth  IS  sometimes  so  artificial:  so 
relative,  as  we  say  in  the  scientific  world,  that  it  is  very 
hard  to  feel  quite  sure  that  what  is  false  and  even 
ridiculous  to  us  may  not  be  true  to  them. 

ECEASIA.     I  ask  you  again,  why  did  you  not  make 


Part  V     As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach  269 

them  Hke  us  ?  Would  any  true  artist  be  content  with  less 
than  the  best? 

PYGMALION.  I  couldnt.  I  tried.  I  failed.  I  am 
convinced  that  what  I  am  about  to  shew  you  is  the  very 
highest  living  organism  that  can  be  produced  in  the 
laboratory.  The  best  tissues  we  can  manufacture  will 
not  take  as  high  potentials  as  the  natural  product :  that 
is  where  Nature  beats  us.  You  dont  seem  to  understand, 
any  of  you,  what  an  enormous  triumph  it  was  to  pro- 
duce consciousness  at  all. 

ACis.  Cut  the  cackle;  and  come  to  the  synthetic 
couple. 

SEVERAL  YOUTHS  AND  MAIDENS.  Yes,  ycs.  No  more 
talking.  Let  us  have  them.  Dry  up,  Pyg;  and  fetch 
them  along.  Come  on:  out  with  them!  The  synthetic 
couple:  the  synthetic  couple. 

PYGMALION  [waving  his  hands  to  appease  them]  Very 
well,  very  well.  Will  you  please  whistle  for  them.?  They 
respond  to  the  stimulus  of  a  whistle. 

All  who  can,  whistle  like  streethoys, 

ECRASiA  l^mahes  a  wry  face  and  puts  her  fingers  in  her 
ears']  ! 

PYGMALION.  Sh-sh-sh !  Thats  enough :  thats  enough : 
thats  enough.  \^Silence] .  Now  let  us  have  some  music. 
A  dance  tune.    Not  too  fast. 

The  flutists  play  a  quiet  dance. 

MARTELLUS.  Prepare  yourselves  for  something 
ghastly. 

Tzm  figures,  a  man  and  woman  of  noble  appearance, 
beautifully  modelled  and  splendidly  attired,  emerge  hand 
in  hand  from  the  temple.  Seeing  that  all  eyes  are  fixed 
on  them,  they  halt  on  the  steps,  smiling  with  gratified 
vanity.     The  wom^n  is  on  the  man's  left. 

PYGMALION  [rubbing  his  hands  with  the  purrvng  satis- 
faction of  a  creator]  This  way,  please. 


270        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach       Part  V 

The  Figures  advance  condescendingly  and  pose  them- 
selves centrally  between  the  curved  seats, 

PYGMALION.  Now  if  jou  will  be  so  good  as  to  oblige 
us  with  a  Httle  something.  You  dance  so  beautifully, 
jou  know.  [He  sits  down  next  Martellus,  and  whispers 
to  him^  It  is  extraordinary  how  sensitive  they  are  to 
the  stimulus  of  flattery. 

The  Figures,  with  a  gracious  air,  dance  pompously, 
but  very  passably.  At  the  close  they  bow  to  one  an- 
other. 

ON  ALL  HANDS  [dapping']  Bravo !  Thank  you.  Won- 
derful !     Splendid.     Perfect. 

The  Figures  acknowledge  the  applause  m  an  obvious 
condition  of  swelled  head. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.    Can  they  make  love? 

PYGMALION.  Yes :  they  can  respond  to  every  stimulus. 
They  have  all  the  reflexes.  Put  your  arm  round  the 
man's  neck,  and  he  will  put  his  arm  round  your  body. 
He  cannot  help  it. 

THE  FEMALE  FIGURE  [frowumg]  Rouud  mine,  you 
mean. 

PYGMALION.  Yours,  too,  of  coursc,  if  the  stimulus 
comes  from  you. 

ECRASiA.    Cannot  he  do  anything  original? 

PYGMALION.  No.  But  then,  you  know,  I  do  not  admit 
that  any  of  us  can  do  anything  really  original,  though 
Martellus  thinks  we  can. 

ACis.    Can  he  answer  a  question? 

PYGMALION.  Oh  yes.  A  question  is  a  stimulus,  you 
know.    Ask  him  one. 

ACIS  \_to  the  Male  Figure]  What  do  you  think  of  what 
you  see  around  you?  Of  us,  for  instance,  and  our  ways 
and  doings  ? 

THE  MALE  FIGURE.  I  havB  Hot  secH  the  newspaper  to- 
day. 


Part  V    As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach  271 

THE   FEMALE  FIGURE.       HoW  Can  JOU  CXpCCt  mj  hus- 

band  to  know  what  to  think  of  you  if  you  give  him  his 
breakfast  without  his  paper? 

MAETELLus.    You  sce.    He  is  a  mere  automaton. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  I  dout  think  I  should  hke  him  to 
put  his  arm  round  my  neck.  I  dont  hke  them.  [The 
Male  Figure  looks  offendedy  and  the  Female  jealous']. 
Oh,  I  thought  they  couldnt  understand.  Have  they 
f  eehngs  ? 

PYGMALION.  Of  course  the}^  have.  I  tell  you  they 
have  all  the  reflexes. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.    But  feelings  are  not  reflexes. 

PYGMALION.  They  are  sensations.  When  the  rays  of 
light  enter  their  eyes  and  make  a  picture  on  their 
retinas,  their  brains  become  conscious  of  the  picture  and 
they  act  accordingly.  When  the  waves  of  sound  started 
by  your  speaking  enter  their  ears  and  record  a  dispar- 
aging remark  on  their  keyboards,  their  brains  become 
conscious  of  the  disparagement  and  resent  it  accord- 
ingly. If  you  did  not  disparage  them  they  would  not 
resent  it.     They  are  merely  responding  to  a  stimulus. 

THE  MALE  FIGURE.  We  are  part  of  a  cosmic  system. 
Free  will  is  an  illusion.  We  are  the  children  of  Cause 
and  Effect.  We  are  the  Unalterable,  the  Irresistible,  the 
Irresponsible,  the  Inevitable. 

My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings: 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  mighty,  and  despair. 

There  is  a  general  stir  of  curiosity  at  this. 

ACis.    What  the  dickens  does  he  mean.? 

THE  MALE  FIGURE.  Silence,  base  accident  of  Nature, 
This  ItaJcing  the  hand  of  the  Female  Figure  and  in- 
troducing her]  is  Cleopatra-Semiramis,  consort  of  the 
king  of  kings,  and  therefore  queen  of  queens.  Ye  are 
things  hatched  from  eggs  by  the  brainless  sun  and  the 


272        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach       Part  V 

blind  fire;  but  the  king  of  kings  and  queen  of  queens 
are  not  accidents  of  the  egg:  thej  are  thought-out  and 
hand-made  to  receive  the  sacred  Life  Force.  There  is 
one  person  of  the  king  and  one  of  the  queen;  but  the 
Life  Force  of  the  king  and  queen  is  all  one:  the  glory 
equal,  the  majesty  co-eternal.  Such  as  the  king  is  so  is 
the  queen,  the  king  thought-out  and  hand-made,  the 
queen  thought-out  and  hand-made.  The  actions  of  the 
king  are  caused,  and  therefore  determined,  from  the  be- 
ginning of  the  world  to  the  end;  and  the  actions  of  the 
queen  are  likewise.  The  king  logical  and  predetermined 
and  inevitable,  and  the  queen  logical  and  predetermined 
and  inevitable.  And  yet  they  are  not  two  logical  and 
predetermined  and  inevitable,  but  one  logical  and  prede- 
termined and  inevitable.  Therefore  confound  not  the 
persons,  nor  divide  the  substance ;  hut  worship  us  twain 
as  one  throne,  two  in  one  and  one  in  two,  lest  by  error  ye 
fall  into  irretrievable  damnation. 

THE  FEMALE  FIGURE.  And  if  any  say  unto  you 
""WTiich  one .?"  remember  that  though  there  is  one  person 
of  the  king  and  one  of  the  queen,  yet  these  two  persons 
are  not  alike,  but  are  woman  and  man,  and  that  as 
woman  was  created  after  man,  the  skill  and  practice 
gained  in  making  him  were  added  to  her,  wherefore  she 
is  to  be  exalted  above  him  in  all  personal  respects,  and — 

THE  MALE  FIGURE.  Pcace,  womau ;  for  this  is  a 
damnable  heresy.  Both  Man  and  Woman  are  what  they 
are  and  must  do  what  they  must  according  to  the  eternal 
laws  of  Cause  and  Effect.  Look  to  your  words ;  for  if 
they  enter  my  ear  and  jar  too  repugnantly  on  my  sen- 
sorium,  who  knows  that  the  inevitable  response  to  that 
stimulus  may  not  be  a  message  to  my  muscles  to  snatch 
up  some  heavy  object  and  break  you  in  pieces. 

The  Female  Figure  picks  up  a  stone  and  is  about  to 
throw  it  at  her  consort. 


Pai:t  V    As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach         273 

AEJiLLAX  Ispringing  up  and  shouting  to  Fygmaliony 
who  is  fondly  watching  the  Male  Figure]  Look  out, 
Pygmalion!    Look  at  the  woman! 

Pygmalion,  seeing  what  is  happening,  hurls  himself 
on  the  Female  Figure  and  wrenches  the  stone  out  of  her 
hand. 

All  spring  up  in  consternation, 

AR  JILL  AX.     She  meant  to  kill  him. 

STREPHON.    This  is  horrible. 

THE  FEMALE  FIGURE  [wrestUng  with  Pygmalion^  Let 
me  go.     Let  me  go,  will  you.      \^She  bites  his  hand^, 

PYGMALION  [releasing  her  and  staggering^  Oh*! 

A  general  shriek  of  horror  echoes  his  exclam^ition. 
He  turns  deadly  pale,  and  supports  himself  against  the 
end  of  the  curved  seat. 

THE     FEMALE     FIGURE     \_tO    her    COUSOrt]     YoU     WOnlrl 

stand  there  and  let  me  be  treated  like  this,  you  unmanly 
coward. 

Pygmalion  falls  dead. 

THE  NEw^LY  BORN.  Oh!  Whats  the  matter?  Why  did 
he  fall?    What  has  happened  to  him? 

They  look  on  anxiously  as  Martellus  kneels  down  and 
examines  the  body  of  Pygmalion. 

MARTELLUS.  She  has  bitten  a  piece  out  of  his  hand 
nearly  as  large  as  a  finger  nail ;  enough  to  kill  ten  men. 
There  is  no  pulse,  no  breath. 

ECRASiA.    But  his  thumb  is  clinched. 

MARTELLUS.  No :  it  has  just  straightened  out.  See! 
He  has  gone.    Poor  Pygmalion ! 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.     Oh!     [She  wccps']. 

STREPHON.    Hush,  dear :  thats  childish. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN  [subsiding  With  a  sniffl  !  ! 

MARTELLUS  [rising']  Dead  in  his  third  year.  What  a 
loss  to  Science ! 

AEJILLAX.     Who   cares    about   Science  ?     Serve   him 


274        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach       Part  V 

right  for  making  that  pair  of  horrors ! 

THE  MALE  FIGURE  Iglariug^  Ha! 

THE  FEMALE  FIGURE.  Keep  a  civil  tongnie  in  your 
head,  you. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  Oh,  do  uot  be  SO  Unkind,  Arjillax. 
You  will  make  water  come  out  of  my  eyes  again. 

MARTELLus  [contemplating  the  Figures]  Just  look  at 
these  two  devils.  I  modelled  them  out  of  the  stuff 
Pygmalion  made  for  them.  They  are  masterpieces  of 
art.  And  see  what  they  have  done !  Does  that  convince 
you  of  the  value  of  art,  Arjillax? 

STREPHON.  They  look  dangerous.  Keep  away  from 
them. 

ECRASiA.  No  need  to  tell  us  that,  Strephon.  Pf ! 
They  poison  the  air. 

THE  MALE  FIGURE.  Beware,  woman.  The  wrath  of 
Ozymandias  strikes  like  the  lightning. 

THE  FEMALE  FIGURE.  You  just  Say  that  again  if  you 
dare,  you  filthy  creature. 

Acis.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  them,  Martellus? 
You  are  responsible  for  them,  now  that  Pygmalion  has 
gone. 

MARTELLUS.  If  they  were  marble  it  would  be  simple 
enough :  I  could  smash  them.  As  it  is,  how  am  I  to  kill 
them  without  making  a  horrible  mess? 

THE  MALE  FIGURE  [posiug  heroically]  Ha!  [He 
declaims] . 

Come  one:  come  all:  this  rock  shall  fly 
From  its  firm  base  as  soon  as  I. 

THE  FEMALE  FIGURE  [foTidly]  My  man!  My  hero 
husband!     I  am  proud  of  you.     I  love  you. 

MARTELLUS.  We  must  send  out  a  message  for  an 
ancient. 

ACIS.    Need  we  bother  an  ancient  about  such  a  trifle  ? 


Part  V    As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach  275 

It  will  take  less  than  half  a  second  to  reduce  our  poor 
Pygmalion  to  a  pinch  of  dust.  Why  not  calcine  the 
two  along  with  him? 

MAETELLUS.  No :  the  two  automata  are  trifles ;  but 
the  use  of  our  powers  of  destruction  is  never  a  trifle.  I 
had  rather  have  the  case  judged. 

The  He- Ancient  emerges  from  the  grove.  The  Fig- 
ures are  ^panic-stricken. 

THE  HE- ANCIENT  [^mildly]  Am  I  wanted?  I  feel  as  if 
I  was.  {^Seeing  the  hody  of  Pygmalion,  and  immedi- 
ately taking  a  sterner  tone']  What!  A  child  lost!  A 
life  wasted!     How  has  this  happened? 

THE  FEMALE  FiGUEE  \_f rant ic ally]  I  didnt  do  it.  It 
was  not  me.  May  I  be  struck  dead  if  I  touched  him. 
It  was  he  \_pointing  to  the  Male  Figure] . 

ALL  \_amazed  at  the  lie]  Oh ! 

THE  MALE  FIGURE.  Liar.  You  bit  him.  Everyone 
here  saw  you  do  it. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  Silcncc.  [Going  between  the  Fig- 
ures]    Who  made  these  two  loathsome  dolls? 

THE  MALE  FIGUEE  [^trying  to  asscrt  himself  with  his 
knees  knocking]  My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of — 

THE  HE-ANCIENT  \_with  tt  contcmptuous  gesture] 
Pooh! 

THE  MALE  FIGUEE  {falling  on  his  knees]  Oh  dont,  sir. 
Dont.     She  did  it,  sir:  indeed  she  did. 

THE  FEMALE  FIGUEE  [howliug  lamentably]  Boohoo! 
oo !  ooh ! 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.    Silencc,  I  say. 

He  knocks  the  Male  Automaton  upright  by  a  very 
light  "flip  under  the  chin.  The  Female  Automaton  hardly 
dares  to  sob.  The  immortals  contemplate  them  with 
shame  and  loathing.  The  She- Ancient  comes  from  the 
trees  opposite  the  temple. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.    Somebody  wants  me.    What  is  the 


276        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach       Part  V 

matter?  IShe  comes  to  the  left  hand  of  the  Female 
Figure,  not  seeing  the  body  of  Fygmalion^.  Pf! 
\_Severely~\  You  have  been  making  dells.  You  must 
not:  thej  are  not  only  disgusting:  they  are  dangerous. 

THE  FEMAI.E  FIGURE  [snivelling  piteously^  Vm  not  a 
doll,  mam.  I'm  only  poor  Cleopatra-Semiramis,  queen 
of  queens.  [Covering  her  face  with  her  hands^  Oh, 
don't  look  at  me  like  that,  miam.  I  meant  no  harm.  He 
hurt  me:  indeed  he  did. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  The  crcature  has  killed  that  poor 
youth. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT  [sceing  the  body  of  Pygmalion~\ 
What!     This  clever  child,  who  promised  so  well! 

THE  FEMALE  FIGURE.  He  made  me,  I  had  as  much 
right  to  kill  him  as  he  had  to  make  me.  And  how  was 
I  to  know  that  a  little  thing  like  that  would  kill  him.? 
I  shouldnt  die  if  he  cut  off  my  arm  or  leg. 

ECRASiA.    What  nonsense! 

MARTELLUS.  It  may  not  be  nonsense.  I  daresay  if 
you  cut  off  her  leg  she  would  grow  another,  like  the 
lobsters  and  the  little  lizards. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  Did  this  dead  boy  make  these  two 
things  ? 

MARTELLUS.  He  made  them  in  his  laboratory.  I 
moulded  their  limbs.  I  am  sorry.  I  was  thoughtless: 
I  did  not  foresee  that  they  would  kill  and  pretend  to 
be  persons  they  were  not,  and  declare  things  that  were 
false,  and  wish  evil.  I  thought  they  would  be  merely 
mechanical  fodls. 

THE  MALE  FIGURE.  Do  you  blame  us  for  our  human 
nature? 

THP  FEMALE  FIGURE.  We  are  flesh  and  blood  and 
not  angels. 

THE  MALE  FIGURE.     Have  you  no  hearts.'* 


Part  V    As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach  277 

ARjiLLAX.  They  are  mad  as  well  as  mischievous. 
May  we  not  destroy  them? 

STREPHON.     We  abhor  them. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.     We  loathc  them. 

ECRASiA.     They  are  noisome. 

ACis.  I  dont  want  to  be  hard  on  the  poor  devils; 
but  they  are  making  me  feel  uneasy  in  my  inside.  I 
never  had  such  a  sensation  before. 

MARTEI.LUS.  I  took  a  lot  of  troublc  with  them.  But 
as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  destroy  them  by  all  means. 
I  loathed  them  from  the  beginning. 

AI.L.  Yes,  yes :  we  all  loathe  them.  Let  us  calcine 
them. 

THE  FEMALE  FIGURE.  Oh,  dont  be  SO  cruel.  I'm  not 
fit  to  die.  I  will  never  bite  anyone  again.  I  will  tell 
the  truth.  I  will  do  good.  Is  it  my  fault  if  I  was  not 
made  properly .^^     Kill  him;  but  spare  me. 

THE  MALE  FIGURE.  No !  I  have  doue  no  harm :  she 
has.     Kill  her  if  you  like :  you  have  no  right  to  kill  me. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  Do  you  hear  that.?  They  want  to 
have  one  another  killed. 

ARjiLLAX.    Monstrous  !    Kill  them  both. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  Silcuce.  These  things  are  mere 
automata :  they  cannot  help  shrinking  from  death  at  any 
cost.  You  see  that  they  have  no  self-control,  and  are 
merely  shuddering  through  a  series  of  reflexes.  Let  us 
see  whether  we  cannot  put  a  little  more  life  into  them. 
[He  takes  the  Male  Figure  hy  the  hand,  and  'places  his 
disengaged  hand  on  its  head~\ .  Now  listen.  One  of  you 
lwo  is  to  be  destroyed.     Which  of  you  shall  it  he? 

THE  MALE  FIGURE  [after  a  slight  convulsion  during 
which  his  eyes  are  fixed  on  the  He-Ancient']  Spare  lier ; 
and  kill  me. 

STREPHON.     Thats  better. 

THE  NEW^LY  BORN.    Much  better. 


278        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach      Part  V 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT  [^handling  the  Female  Automaton 
in  the  same  manner']  Which  of  you  shall  we  kiU? 

THE  FEMAT^E  FIGURE.  Kill  US  both.  How  could  either 
of  us  live  without  the  other? 

ECEASiA.     The  woman  is  more  sensible  than  the  man. 

The  ancients  release  the  Automata, 

THE  MALE  FIGURE  [sinMng  to  the  ground]  I  am  dis- 
couraged.    Life  is  too  heavy  a  burden. 

THE  FEMALE  FIGURE  Icollapsing]  I  am  dying.  I  am 
glad.     I  am  afraid  to  live. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  I  think  it  would  be  nice  to  give 
the  poor  things  a  little  music. 

ARJILLAX.     Why.? 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.     I  dont  know.     But  it  would. 

The  Musicians  play. 

THE  FEMALE  FIGURE.  Ozymaudias :  do  you  hear  that  ? 
[She  rises  on  her  knees  and  looks  r aptly  into  space]l 
Queen  of  queens !      [^She  dies] . 

THE  MALE  FIGURE  [crawUng  feebly  towards  her  until 
he  reaches  her  hand]  I  knew  I  was  really  a  king  of  kings. 
[To  the  others]  Illusions,  farewell :  we  are  going  to  our 
thrones.      [He  dies]. 

The  music  stops.     There  is  dead  silence  for  a  moment. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.     That  was  funny. 

STREPHON.     It  was.     Even  the  Ancients  are  smiling. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.       Just  a  little. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT  [quickly  recovering  her  grave  and 
peremptory  manner]  Take  these  two  abominations  away 
to  Pygmalion's  laboratory,  and  destroy  them  with  tihe 
rest  of  the  laboratory  refuse.  [Some  of  them  move  to 
obey] ,  Take  care :  do  not  touch  their  flesh :  it  is  noxious : 
lift  them  by  their  robes.  Carry  Pygmalion  into  the 
temple ;  and  dispose  of  his  remains  in  the  usual  way. 

The  three  bodies  are  carried  out  as  directed,  Pyg- 
malion into  the  temple  by  his  bare  arms  and  legs,  and 


Part  V     As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach         279 

the  two  Figures  through  the  grove  hy  their  clothes, 
Martellus  superintends  the  removal  of  the  Figures^  Acis 
that  of  Pygmalion.  Ecrasia,  Arjillax,  Strephon,  and 
the  Newly  Born  sit  down  as  before^  but  on  contrary 
benches;  so  that  Strephon  and  the  Newly  Born  now  face 
the  grove,  and  Ecrasia  and  Arjillax  the  temple.  The 
Ancients  remain  standing  at  the  altar. 

ECEASiA  [as  she  sits  down^  Oh  for  a  breeze  from  the 
hills ! 

STREPHON.  Or  the  wind  from  the  sea  at  the  turn  of 
the  tide ! 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.     I  Want  some  clean  air. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  The  air  will  be  clean  in  a  moment. 
This  doll  fieslh  that  children  make  decomposes  quickly 
at  best;  but  when  it  is  shaken  by  such  passions  as  the 
creatures  are  capable  of,  it  breaks  up  at  once  and  be- 
comes horribly  tainted. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  Let  it  be  a  lesson  to  you  -all  to  be 
content  with  lifeless  toys,  and  not  attempt  to  make  living 
ones.  What  would  you  think  of  us  ancients  if  we  made 
toys  of  you  children  ? 

THE  NEWLY  BORN  \^coaxingly^  Why  do  you  not  make 
toys  of  us?  Then  you  would  play  with  us;  and  that 
would  be  very  nice. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  It  would  not  amuse  us.  When 
you  play  with  one  another  you  play  with  your  bodies, 
and  that  makes  you  supple  and  strong ;  but  if  we  played 
with  you  we  should  play  with  your  minds,  and  perhaps 
deform  them. 

STREPHON.  You  are  a  ghastly  lot,  you  ancients.  I 
shall  kill  myself  when  I  am  four  years  old.  What  do 
you  live  for? 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  You  will  find  out  when  you  grow 
up.     You  will  not  kill  yourself. 


280        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach       Part  V 

STREPHON.  If  you  make  me  believe  that,  I  shall  kill 
myself  now. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.     Oh  no,  I  Want  you.     I  love  you. 

STREPHON.  I  love  someoue  else.  And  she  has  gone 
old,  old.     Lost  to  me  for  ever. 

THE  HE- ANCIENT.       HoW  old? 

STREPPioN.  You  »aw  her  when  you  barged  into  us  as 
we  were  dancing.     She  is  four. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  How  I  should  have  hated  her 
twenty  minutes  ago!  But  I  have  grown  out  of  that 
now. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  Good.  That  hatred  is  called 
jealousy,  the  worst  of  our  childish  complaints. 

MartelluSt  dusting  his  hands  and  pufftiig^  returns  from 
the  grove. 

MARTELLus.  Ouf !  \^He  sits  doxxM  next  the  Newly 
Born^     That  job's  finished. 

ARjiLLAX.  Ancients:  I  should  like  to  make  a  few 
studies  of  you.  Not  portraits,  of  course :  I  shall  ideal- 
ize you  a  little.  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  you 
ancients  are  the  most  interesting  subjects  after  all. 

MARTELLUs.  What !  Have  those  two  horrors,  whose 
ashes  I  have  just  deposited  with  peculiar  pleasure  in 
poor  P^^gmalion's  dustbin,  not  cured  you  of  this  silly 
image-making? 

ARjiLLAx.  Why  did  you  model  them  as  young  things, 
you  fool?  If  Pygmalion  had  come  to  me,  I  should  have 
made  ancients  of  them  for  him.  Not  that  I  should  have 
modelled  them  any  better.  I  have  always  said  that  no 
one  can  beat  you  at  your  best  as  far  as  handwork  is 
concerned.  But  this  job  required  brains.  That  is 
where  I  should  have  come  in. 

MARTELLUS.  Well,  my  brainy  boy,  you  are  welcome 
to  try  your  hand.  There  are  two  of  Pygmalion's  pupils 
at  the  laboratory  who  helped  him  to  manufacture  the 


Part  V     As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach         281 

bones  and  tissues  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  They  can  turn 
out  a  couple  of  new  automatons ;  and  you  can  model 
them  as  ancients  if  this  venerable  pair  will  sit  for  you. 

ECRASiA  [decisively]  No.  No  more  automata.  They 
are  too  disgusting. 

Acis  [returning  from  the  temple^  Well,  thats  done. 
Poor  old  Pyg! 

ECRASIA.  Only  fancy,  Acis !  Arjillax  wants  to  make 
more  of  those  abominable  things,  and  to  destroy  even 
their  artistic  character  by  making  ancients  of  them. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN,  You  wout  sit  f or  them,  will  you  ? 
Please  dont. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.     Children,  listen. 

ACIS  [striding  down  the  steps  to  the  bench  and  seating 
himself  next  Ecrasia~\  What !  Even  the  Ancient  wants 
to  make  a  speech !     Give  it  mouth,  O  Sage. 

STREPHON.  For  heaven's  sake  dont  tell  us  that  the 
earth  was  once  inhabited  by  Ozymandiases  and  Cleo- 
patras.     Life  is  hard  enough  for  us  as  it  is. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  Life  is  uot  meant  to  be  easy,  my 
child;  but  take  courage:  it  can  be  delightful.  What  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  is  that  ever  since  men  existed,  children 
have  played  with  dolls. 

ECRASIA.  You  keep  using  that  word.  What  are 
dolls,  pray? 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  What  you  Call  works  of  art. 
Images.     We  call  them  dolls. 

ARJILLAX.  Just  so.  You  have  no  sense  of  art ;  and 
you  instinctively  insult  it. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  Children  have  been  known  to  make 
dolls  out  of  rags,  and  to  caress  them  with  the  deepest 
fondness. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  Eight  centurics  ago,  when  I  was 
a  child,  I  made  a  rag  doll.  The  rag  doll  is  the  dearest 
of  all. 


282        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach      Part  V 

THE  NEWLY  BORN  \_eagerli/  interested]  Oh !  Have  you 
got  it  still? 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.     I  kept  it  a  full  Week. 

ECRASiA.  Even  in  your  childhood,  then,  you  did  not 
understand  high  art,  and  adored  your  own  amateur 
crudities. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT,     How  old  are  you.^* 

ECRASIA.     Eight  months. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  When  you  have  lived  as  long  as 
I  have — 

ECRASIA  [interrupting  rudely]  I  shall  worship  rag 
dolls,  perhaps.     Thank  heaven,  I  am  still  in  my  prime. 

THE  HE- ANCIENT.  You  are  still  capable  of  thanking, 
though  you  do  not  know  what  you  thank.  You  are  a 
thanking  little  animal,  a  blaming  little  animal,  a — - 

ACis.     A  gushing  little  animal. 

AEJiLLAX.  And,  as  she  thinks,  an  artistic  little  ani- 
mal. 

ECRASIA  [nettled]  I  am  an  animated  being  with  a 
reasonable  soul  and  human  flesh  subsisting.  If  your 
Automata  had  been  properly  animated,  Martellus,  they 
would  have  been  more  successful. 

THE  sHE-ANciENT.  That  is  whcre  you  are  wrong,  my 
child.  If  those  two  loathsome  things  had  been  rag  dolls, 
they  would  have  been  amusing  and  lovable.  The  Newly 
Born  here  would  have  played  with  them ;  and  you  would 
all  have  laughed  and  played  with  them  too  until  you 
had  torn  them  to  pieces;  and  then  you  would  have 
laughed  more  than  ever. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  Of  course  we  should.  Isnt  that 
funny  ? 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  When  a  thing  is  funny,  search  it 
for  a  hidden  truth. 

STREPHON.     Yes ;  and  take  all  the  fun  out  of  it. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.     Do  not  bc  SO  embittered  because 


Part  V     As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach  283 

jour  sweetheart  has  outgrown  her  love  for  jou.  The 
Newly  Born  will  make  amends. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  Oh  jes :  I  will  be  more  than  she 
could  ever  have  been. 

STREPHON.     Psha !     Jealous ! 

THE  NEWLY  BOEN.  Oh  no.  I  have  grown  out  of 
that.  I  love  her  now  because  she  loved  you,  and  because 
you  love  her. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  That  is  the  next  stage.  You  are 
getting  on  very  nicely,  my  child. 

MARTELLus.  Come !  what  is  the  truth  that  was 
hidden  in  the  rag  doll? 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  Well,  consider  why  you  are  not 
content  with  the  rag  doll,  and  must  have  something  more 
closely  resembling  a  real  living  creature.  As  you  grow 
up  you  make  images  and  paint  pictures.  Those  of  you 
who  cannot  do  that  make  stories  about  imaginary  dolls 
Or  you  dress  yourselves  up  as  dolls  and  act  plays  about 
them. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  And,  to  deceive  yourself  the  more 
completely,  you  take  them  so  very  very  seriously  that 
Ecrasia  here  declares  that  the  making  of  dolls  is  the 
holiest  work  of  creation,  and  the  words  you  put  into  the 
mouths  cf  dolls  the  sacredest  of  scriptures  and  the 
noblest  of  utterances. 

ECRASIA.     Tush ! 

AR  JILLAX.       Tosh ! 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  Yet  the  morc  beautiful  they  be- 
come the  further  they  retreat  from  you.  You  cannot 
caress  them  as  you  caress  the  rag  doll.  You  cannot  cry 
for  them  when  they  are  broken  or  lost,  or  when  you  pre- 
tend they  have  been  unkind  to  you,  as  you  could  when 
you  played  with  rag  dolls. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.     At  last,  like  Pygmalion,  you  de- 


284        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach      Part  V 


to' 


mand  from  your  dolls  the  final  perfection  of  resemblance 
to  life.     They  must  move  and  speak. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.     They  must  love  and  'hate. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.     They  must  think  that  they  think. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  They  must  have  soft  flesh  and 
warm  blood. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  And  then,  when  you  have  achieved 
this  as  Pygmalion  did;  when  the  marble  masterpiece  is 
dethroned  by  the  automaton  and  the  homo  by  the  ho- 
munculus;  when  the  body  and  the  brain,  the  reasonable 
soul  and  human  flesh  subsisting,  as  Ecrasia  says,  stand 
before  you  unmasked  as  mere  machinery,  and  your  im- 
pulses are  shewn  to  be  nothing  but  reflexes,  you  are 
filled  with  horror  and  loathing,  and  would  give  worlds 
to  be  young  enough  to  play  with  your  rag  doll  again, 
since  every  step  away  from  it  has  been  a  step  away  from 
love  and  happiness.     Is  it  not  true  ? 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  Speak,  Martcllus :  you  who  have 
travelled  the  whole  patJh. 

MARTELLus.  It  is  true.  With  fierce  joy  I  turned  a 
temperature  of  a  million  degrees  on  those  two  things  I 
had  modelled,  and  saw  them  vanish  in  an  instant  into 
inoff'ensive  dust. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  Speak,  Arjillax:  you  who  have 
advanced  from  imitating  the  lightly  living  child  to  the 
intensely  living  ancient.     Is  it  true,  so  far? 

ARJILLAX.  It  is  partly  true :  I  cannot  pretend  to  be 
satisfied  now  with  modelling  pretty  children. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  And  you,  Ecrasia :  you  cling  to 
your  highly  artistic  dolls  as  the  noblest  projections  of 
the  Life  Force,  do  you  not? 

ECRASIA.  Without  art,  the  crudeness  of  reality 
would  make  the  world  unbearable. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN  l^anticipattTig  the  She-Ancient^  mho 
is  evidently  going  to  challenge  her]  Now  you  are  com- 


Part  V      As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach        285 

ing  to  me,  because  I  am  the  latest  arrival.  But  I  doiit 
understand  your  art  and  your  dolls  at  all.  I  want  to 
caress  my  darling  Strephon,  not  to  play  with  dolls. 

ACis.  I  am  in  my  fourth  year,  and  I  have  got  on 
very  well  without  your  dolls.  I  had  rather  walk  up  a 
mountain  and  down  again  than  look  at  all  the  statues 
Martellus  and  Arjillax  ever  made.  You  prefer  a  statue 
to  an  automaton,  and  a  rag  doll  to  a  statue.  So  do  I ; 
but  I  prefer  a  man  to  a  rag  doll.  Give  me  friends,  not 
dolls. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  Yet  I  have  seen  you  walking  over 
the  moutains  alone.  Have  you  not  found  your  best 
friend  in  yourself.? 

ACIS.  What  are  you  driving  at,  old  one.?  What 
does  all  this  lead  to.? 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  It  leads,  young  man,  to  the  truth 
that  you  can  create  nothing  but  yourself. 

ACIS  \^musing^  I  can  create  nothing  but  myself. 
Ecrasia:  you  are  clever.  Do  you  understand  it.?  I 
dont. 

ECRASIA.  It  Is  as  easy  to  understand  as  any  other 
ignorant  error.  What  artist  is  as  great  as  his  own 
works .?  He  can  create  masterpieces ;  but  he  cannot  im- 
prove the  shape  of  his  own  nose. 

ACIS.  There!  What  have  you  to  say  to  that,  old 
one.? 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  He  can  alter  the  shape  of  his  own 
soul.  He  could  alter  the  shape  of  his  nose  if  the  dif- 
ference between  a  turned-up  nose  and  a  turned-down  one 
were  worth  the  effort.  One  does  not  face  the  throes  of 
creation  for  trifles. 

ACIS.     What  have  you  to  say  to  that,  Ecrasia? 

ECRASIA.  I  say  that  if  the  ancients  had  thoroughly 
grasped  the  theory  of  fine  art  they  would  understand 
that  the  difference  between  a  beautiful  nose  and  an  ugly 


286        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach      Part  V 

one  is  of  supreme  importance:  that  it  is  indeed  the  only 
thing  that  matters. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  That  is,  thej  would  understand 
something  they  could  not  believe,  and  that  you  do  not 
believe. 

ACis.  Just  so,  mam.  Art  is  not  honest:  that  is  why 
I  never  could  stand  much  of  it.  It  is  all  make-believe. 
Ecrasia  never  really  says  things:  she  only  rattles  her 
teeth  in  her  mouth. 

ECRASIA.     Acis :  you  are  crude. 

ACIS.  You  mean  that  I  wont  play  the  game  of  make- 
believe.  Well,  I  dont  ask  you  to  play  it  with  me;  so 
why  should  you  expect  me  to  play  it  with  you.'^ 

ECRASIA.  You  have  no  right  to  say  that  I  am  not 
sincere.  I  have  found  a  happiness  in  art  that  real  life 
has  never  given  me.  I  am  intensely  in  earnest  about 
art.  There  is  a  magic  and  mystery  in  art  that  you 
know  nothing  of. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  Ycs,  child :  art  is  the  magic  mir- 
ror you  make  to  reflect  your  invisible  dreams  in  visible 
pictures.  You  use  a  glass  mirror  to  see  your  face:  you 
use  works  of  art  to  see  your  soul.  But  we  who  are  older 
use  neither  glass  mirrors  nor  works  of  art.  We  have  a 
direct  sense  of  life.  When  you  gain  that  you  will  put 
aside  your  mirrors  and  statues,  your  toys  and  your 
dolls. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  Yet  we  too  have  our  toys  and  our 
dolls.     That  is  the  trouble  of  the  ancients. 

AEJII.LAX.  What !  The  ancients  have  troubles !  It 
is  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  one  of  them  confess  it. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  Look  at  US.  Look  at  me.  This 
IS  my  body,  my  blood,  my  brain ;  but  it  is  not  me.  I  am 
the  eternal  life,  the  perpetual  resurrection;  but  Istrik- 
ing  his  hod^]  this  structure,  this  organism,  this  make- 
shift, can  be  made  by  a  boy  in  a  laboratory,  and  is  held 


Part  V      As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach        287 

back  from  dissolution  only  by  my  use  of  it.  Worse  still, 
it  can  be  broken  by  a  slip  of  the  foot,  drowned  by  a 
cramp  in  the  stomach,  destroyed  by  a  flash  from  the 
clouds.     Sooner  or  later,  its  destruction  is  certain. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  Ycs :  this  body  is  the  last  doll  to 
be  discarded.  When  I  was  a  child,  Ecrasia,  I,  too,  was 
an  artist,  like  your  sculptor  friends  there,  striving  to 
create  perfection  in  things  outside  myself.  I  made 
statues :  I  painted  pictures :  I  tried  to  worship  them. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  I  had  no  such  skill;  but  I,  like 
Acis,  sought  perfection  in  friends,  in  lovers,  in  nature, 
in  things  outside  myself.  Alas !  I  could  not  create  it :  I 
could  only  imagine  it. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  I,  like  ArjiUax,  found  out  that 
my  statues  of  bodily  beauty  were  no  longer  even  beau- 
tiful to  me ;  and  I  pressed  on  and  made  statutes  and  pic- 
tures of  men  and  women  of  genius,  like  those  in  the  old 
fable  of  Michael  Angelo.  Like  Martellus,  I  smashed 
them  when  I  saw  that  there  was  no  life  in  them :  that  they 
were  so  dead  that  they  would  not  even  dissolve  as  a  dead 
body  does. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  And  I,  like  Acis,  ceased 
over  the  mountains  with  my  friends,  and  walked 
for  I  found  that  I  had  creative  power  over  myself  but 
none  over  my  friends.  And  then  I  ceased  to  walk  on 
the  mountains ;  for  I  saw  that  the  mountains  were  de^iL-J 

ACIS  ^protesting-  vehemently^  No.  I  grant  you  about 
the  friends  perhaps;  but  the  mountains  are  still  the 
mountains,  each  with  its  name,  its  individuality,  its  up- 
standing strength  and  majesty,  its  beauty — 

ECRASIA.     What !  Acis  among  the  rhapsodists ! 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  Mere  metaphor,  my  poor  boy :  the 
mountains  are  corpses. 

ALL  THE  YOUNG  [repelled']  Oh ! 

THE  HE- ANCIENT.     Ycs.     In  the  hardpressed  heart  of 


s  a  dead 

~1 

to  walk    I 
d  alone;     y 


t- 


288        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach      Part  V 

the  earth,  where  the  inconceivable  heat  of  the  sun  still 
glows,  the  stone  lives  in  fierce  atomic  convulsion,  as  we 
live  in  our  slower  way.  When  it  is  cast  out  to  the  sur- 
face it  dies  like  a  deep-sea  fish:  what  you  see  is  only  its 
cold  dead  body.  We  have  tapped  that  central  heat  as 
prehistoric  man  tapped  water  springs ;  but  nothing  has 
come  up  alive  from  those  flaming  depths:  your  land- 
scapes, your  mountains,  are  only  the  world's  cast  skins 
and  decaying  teeth  on  whic'h  we  live  like  microbes. 

ECRAsiA.  Ancient:  you  blaspheme  against  Nature 
and  against  Man. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  Child,  child,  how  much  enthusi- 
asm will  you  have  for  man  when  you  have  endured  eight 
centuries  of  him,  as  I  have,  and  seen  him  ^perish  by  an 
;^  empty  mischance  that  is  yet  a  certainty?  [When  I  dis- 
carded my  dolls  as  he  discarded  his  friends  and  his  moun- 
tains, it  was  to  myself  I  turned  as  to  the  final  reality. 
Here,  and  here  alone,  I  could  shape  and  create.  When 
my  arm  was  weak  and  I  willed  it  to  be  strong,  I  could 
create  a  roll  of  muscle  on  it;  and  when  I  understood 
that.  I  understood  that  I  could  without  any  greater  mir- 
acle give  myself  ten  arms  and  three  heads. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  I  also  Came  to  understand  such 
miracles.  For  fifty  years  I  sat  contemplating  this 
power  in  myself  and  concentrating  my  wjllJ 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  So  did  I ;  and  for  five  more  years 
T  made  myself  into  all  sorts  of  fantastic  monsters.  I 
walked  upon  a  dozen  legs:  I  worked  with  twenty  hands 
and  a  hundred  fingers:  I  looked  to  the  four  quarters 
of  the  compass  with  eight  eyes  out  of  four  heads. 
Children  fled  in  amazement  from  me  until  I  had  to  hide 
myself  from  them ;  and  the  ancients,  who  had  forgotten 
how  to  laugh,  smiled  grimly  when  they  passed. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  We  havc  all  committed  these  fol- 
lies.    You  will  all  commit  them. 


Part  V      As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach        289 

THE  NEWLY  BOEN.  Oh,  do  grow  a  lot  of  arms  and 
legs  and  heads  for  us.     It  would  be  so  funny. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  My  ohild :  I  am  just  as  well  as  I 
am.  I  would  not  lift  my  finger  now  to  have  a  thousand 
heads. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  But  what  would  I  uot  givc  to  havc 
no  head  at  all? 

ALL  THE  YOUNG.  Whats  that?  No  head  at  all? 
Why?     How? 

THE  HE- ANCIENT.     Can  you  not  understand? 

ALL  THE  YOUNG  [^shaking  their  heads^  No.  1 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.     One  day,  when  I  was  tired  of     ( 
learning  to  walk  forward  with  some  of  my   feet  and 
backwards  with  others  and  sideways  with  the  rest  all       ^ 
at  once,  I  sat  on  a  rock  with  my  four  chins  resting  on       ^ 
four  of  my  palms,  and  four  of  my  elbows  resting  on 
four  of  my  knees.     And  suddenly  it  came  into  my  mind 
that  this  monstrous  machinery  of  heads  and  limbs  was 
no  more  me  than  my  statues  had  been  me,  and  that  it 
was  only  an  automaton  that  I  had  enslaved.    ^, 

MARTELLUS.     Euslavcd?     What  does  that  mean? 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  A  thing  that  must  do  what  you 
command  it  is  a  slave;  and  its  commander  is  its  master. 
These  are  words  you  will  learn  when  your  turn  comes. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  You  will  also  leam  that  when  the 
master  has  come  to  do  everything  through  the  slave,  the 
slave  becomes  his  master,  since  he  cannot  live  without 
him. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  And  SO  I  perceivcd  that  I  had 
made  myself  the  slave  of  a  slave. 

THE  HE- ANCIENT.  When  we  discovered  that,  we  shed 
our  superfluous  heads  and  legs  and  arms  until  we  had 
our  old  shapes  again,  and  no  longer  startled  the  children. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  jJBut  stiU  I  am  the  slave  of  this 
slave,  my  body.     How  am  I  to  be  delivered  from  it? 


290        As  Far  As  Thought  Ce^  ^each     Part  V 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  That,  children,  is  the  trouble  of 
the  ancients.  For  whilst  we  are  tied  to  this  tyrannous 
body  we  are  subject  to  its  death,  and  our  destiny  is  not 
achieved. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.     What  is  your  destiny.? 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.     To  be  immortal. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  The  day  will  come  when  there  will 
be  no  people,  only  thought.  i 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.     And  that  will  be  life  eternals 

ECRASiA.  I  trust  I  shall  meet  my  fatal  accident  be- 
fore that  day  dawns. 

ARjiLLAx.  For  once,  Ecrasia,  I  agree  with  you.  A 
world  in  which  there  were  nothing  plastic  would  be  an 
utterly  miserable  one. 

ECRASIA.  No  limbs,  no  contours,  no  exquisite  lines 
and  elegant  shapes,  no  worship  of  beautiful  bodies,  no 
poetic  embraces  in  which  cultivated  lovers  pretend  that 
their  caressing  hands  are  wandering  over  celestial  hills 
and  enchanted  valleys,  no — 

Acis  [interrupting  her  disgustedly~\  What  an  in- 
human mind  you  have,  Ecrasia ! 

ECRASIA.     Inhuman ! 

ACIS.  Yes:  inhuman.  Why  dont  you  fall  in  love 
with  someone? 

ECRASIA.  I!  I  have  been  in  love  all  my  life.  I 
burned  with  it  even  in  the  e^g, 

ACIS.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  You  and  Arjillax  are  just  as 
hard  as  two  stones. 

ECRASIA.     You  did  not  always  think  so,  Acis. 

ACIS.  Oh,  I  know.  I  offered  you  my  love  once,  and 
asked  for  yours. 

ECRASIA.     And  did  I  deny  it  to  you,  Acis  ? 

ACIS.     You  didnt  even  know  what  love  was. 

ECRASIA.  Oh !  I  adored  you,  you  stupid  oaf,  until  I 
found  that  you  were  a  mere  animal. 


Part  V      As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach        291 

ACis.  And  I  made  no  end  of  a  fool  of  myself  about 
you  until  I  discovered  that  you  were  a  mere  artist.  You 
appreciated  my  contours!  I  was  plastic,  as  Arjillax 
says.  I  wasnt  a  man  to  you:  I  was  a  masterpiece  ap- 
pealing to  your  tastes  and  your  senses.  Your  tastes  and 
senses  had  overlaid  the  direct  impulse  of  life  in  you. 
And  because  I  cared  only  for  one  life,  and  went  straight 
to  it,  and  was  bored  by  your  calling  my  limbs  fancy 
names  and  mapping  me  into  mountains  and  valleys  and 
all  the  rest  of  it,  you  called  me  an  animal.  Well,  I  am 
an  animal,  if  you  call  a  live  man  an  animal. 

ECRASiA.  You  need  not  explain.  You  refused  to  be 
refined.  I  did  my  best  to  lift  your  prehistoric  impulses 
on  to  the  plain  of  beauty,  of  imagination,  of  romance, 
of  poetry,  of  art,  of — 

ACIS.  These  things  are  all  very  well  in  their  way  and 
in  their  proper  places.  But  they  are  not  love.  They 
are  an  unnatural  adulteration  of  love.  Love  is  a  simple 
thing  and  a  deep  thing:  it  is  an  act  of  life  and  not  an 
illu^on.     Art  is  an  illusion. 

ARjiiiLAX.  That  is  false.  The  statue  comes  to  life 
always.  The  statues  of  today  are  the  men  and  women 
of  the  next  incubation.  I  hold  up  the  marble  figure  be- 
fore the  mother  and  say,  "This  is  the  model  you  must 
copy."  We  produce  what  we  see.  Let  no  man  dare  to 
create  in  art  a  thing  that  he  v^ould  not  have  exist  in  life. 

MARTEI.I.US.  Yes:  I  have  been  through  all  that. 
But  you  yourself  are  making  statues  of  ancients  instead 
of  beautiful  nymphs  and  swains.  And  Ecrasia  is  right 
about  the  ancients  being  inartistic.  They  are  damna- 
bly inartistic. 

ECRASIA  ^triumphant]  All!  Our  greatest  artist  vin- 
dicates me.     Thanks,  Martellus. 

MARTELLUS.  The  body  always  ends  by  being  a  bore. 
Nothing    remains     beautiful    and    interesting    except 


/ 


292        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach      Part  V 

thought,  because  the  thought  is  the  life.  Which  is  just 
what  this  old  gentleman  and  this  old  lady  seem  to  think 
too. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.       Quite  SO. 

THE  HE- ANCIENT.     Precisely. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN  [to  the  He-Ancieut^  But  you  cant 
be  nothing.     What  do  you  want  to  be? 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.       A  VOrteX. 
THE   NEWLY  BORN.       A   what.'' 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  A  vortex.  I  began  as  a  vortex : 
why  should  I  not  end  as  one? 

ECRASiA.  Oh !  That  is  what  you  old  people  are.  Vor- 
ticists. 

ACis.  But  if  life  is  thought,  can  you  live  without  a 
head  ? 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  Not  now  perhaps.  But  prehistoric 
men  thought  they  could  not  live  without  tails.  I  can 
live  without  a  tail.  Why  should  I  not  live  without  a 
head  ? 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.     What  is  a  tail? 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  A  habit  of  which  your  ancestors 
managed  to  cure  themselves. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  None  of  us  now  believe  that  all 
this  machinery  of  flesh  and  blood  is  necessary     It  dies. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  It  imprisons  us  on  this  petty 
planet  and  fofbids  us  to  range  through  the  stars. 

ACIS.  But  even  a  vortex  is  a  vortex  in  something. 
You  cant  have  a  whirlpool  without  water ;  and  you  oant 
have  a  vortex  without  gas,  or  molecules  or  atoms  or  ions 
or  electrons  or  something,  not  nothing. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  No :  the  vortcx  is  not  the  water 
nor  the  gas  nor  the  atoms :  it  is  a  power  over  these 
things. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  The  body  was  the  slave  of  the 
vortex;  but  the  slave  has  become  the  master;  and  we 


Part  V      As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach        293 

must  free  ourselves  from  that  tyranny.  It  is  this  stuff 
[indicating  Jier  body],  this  flesh  and  blood  and  bone  and 
all  the  rest  of  it,  that  is  intolerable.  Even  prehistoric 
man  dreamed  of  what  he  called  an  astral  body,  and  asked 
who  would  deliver  him  from  the  body  of  this  death. 

ACis  [evidently  out  of  his  depth]  I  shouldnt  think  too 
much  about  it  if  I  were  you.  You  have  to  keep  sane, 
you  know. 

The  two  Ancients  look  at  one  another;  shrug  their 
shoulders;  and  address  themselves  to  their  departure. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  We  are  staying  too  long  with  you, 
children.     We  must  go. 

All  the  young  people  rise  rather  eagerly, 

ARJiLLAX.     Dont  mention  it. 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  It  is  tiresome  for  us,  too.  You 
see,  children,  we  have  to  put  things  very  crudely  to  you 
to  make  ourselves  intelligible. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  And  I  am  afraid  we  do  not  quue 
succeed. 

STEEPHON.  Very  kind  of  you  to  come  at  all  and  talk 
to  us,  I'm  sure. 

ECRASiA.  Why  do  the  other  ancients  never  come  and 
give  us  a  turn? 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  It  is  SO  difficult  for  them.  They 
have  f ojgotten  how  to  speak ;  how  to  read ;  even  how  to 
think  in  your  fashion.  We  do  not  communicate  with 
one  another  in  that  way  or  apprehend  the  world  as  you 
do. 

THE  HE-ANCIENT.  I  find  it  more  and  more  difficult  to 
keep  up  your  language.  Another  century  or  two  and 
it  will  be  impossible.  I  shall  have  to  be  relieved  by  a 
younger  shepherd. 

ACIS.  Of  course  we  are  always  delighted  to  see  you ; 
but  still,  if  it  tries  you  very  severely,  we  could  manage 
pretty  well  by  ourselves,  you  know. 


294        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach      Part  V 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  Tell  me,  Acis :  do  you  ever  think 
of  yourself  as  having  to  live  perhaps  for  thousands  of 
years  ? 

ACIS.  Oh,  dont  talk  about  it.  Why,  I  know  very 
well  that  I  have  only  four  years  of  what  any  reasonable 
person  would  call  living;  and  three  and  a  half  of  them 
are  already  gone. 

ECRAsiA.  You  must  not  mind  our  saying  so;  but 
really  you  cannot  call  being  an  ancient  living. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN  [almost  in  tears^  Oh,  this  dreadful 
shortness  of  our  lives !     I  cannot  bear  it. 

STREPHON.  I  made  up  my  mind  on  that  subject  long 
ago.  When  I  am  three  years  and  fifty  weeks  old,  I  shall 
have  my  fatal  accident.     And  it  will  not  be  an  accident. 

THE  HE— ANCIENT.  We  are  very  tired  of  this  subject. 
I  must  leave  you. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.     What  is  being  tired? 

THE  SHE-ANCIENT.  The  penalty  of  attending  to 
children.     Farewell. 

The  two  Ancients  go  away  sever  ally  y  she  into  the 
7rove,  he  up  to  the  hills  behind  the  temple, 

ALL.     Ouf !     [A  great  sigh  of  relief], 

ECRASIA.     Dreadful  people! 

STREPHON.     Bores ! 

MARTELLUS.  Yet  oue  would  like  to  follow  them;  to 
enter  into  their  life ;  to  grasp  their  thought ;  to  compre- 
hend the  universe  as  they  must. 

ARjiLLAx.     Getting  old,  Martellus.? 

MARTELLUS.  Well,  I  have  finished  with  the  dolls ;  and 
I  am  no  longer  jealous  of  you.  That  looks  like  the  end. 
Two  hours  sleep  is  enough  for  me.  I  am  afraid  I  am 
beginning  to  find  you  all  rather  silly. 

STREPHON.  I  know.  My  girl  went  off  this  morning. 
She  hadnt  slept  for  weeks.  And  she  found  mathematics 
more  interesting  than  me. 


Part  V      As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach        295 

MARTELLUS.  There  is  a  prehistoric  saying  that  has 
come  down  to  us  from  a  famous  woman  teacher.  She 
said:  "Leave  women;  and  study  mathematics."  It  is 
the  only  remaining  fragment  of  a  lost  scripture  called 
The  Confessions  of  St.  Augustin,  the  English  Opium 
Eater,  That  primitive  savage  must  have  been  a  great 
woman,  to  say  a  thing  that  still  lives  after  three  hundred 
centuries.  I  too  will  leave  women  and  study  mathe- 
matics, which  I  have  neglected  too  long.  Farewell, 
children,  my  old  playmates.  I  almost  wish  I  could  feel 
sentimental  about  parting  from  you ;  but  the  cold  truth 
is  that  you  bore  me.  Do  not  be  angry  with  me:  your 
turn  will  come.  \_He  passes  away  gravely  into  the 
grove.] 

ARjiLLAX.  There  goes  a  great  spirit.  What  a 
sculptor  he  was!  And  now,  nothing!  It  is  as  if  he 
had  cut  off  his  hands. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  Oh,  wiU  you  all  leave  me  as  he  has 
left  you  ? 

ECRASiA.     Never.     We  have  sworn  it. 

STREPHON.  What  is  the  use  of  swearing?  She  swore. 
He  swore.     You  have  sworn.     They  have  sworn. 

ECRASIA.     You  speak  like  a  grammar. 

STREPHON.  That  is  how  one  ought  to  speak,  isnt  it? 
We  shall  all  be  forsworn. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  Do  uot  talk  like  that.  You  are 
saddening  us;  and  you  are  chasing  the  light  away.  It 
is  growing  dark. 

Acis.  Night  is  falling.  The  light  will  come  back 
to-morrow. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.     What  is  tomorrow? 

ACIS.  The  day  that  never  comes.  [He  tum^  towards 
the  temple.'] 

All  begin  trooping  into  the  temple. 


296        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach     Part  V 

THE  NEWLY  BORN  ^holding  Acts  back^  That  is  no 
answer.     What — 

AR  JILL  AX.  Silence.  Little  children  should  be  seen 
and  not  heard. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN  Inputting  out  her  tongue  at  him]  ! 

ECRASiA.     Ungraceful.     You  must  not  do  that. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  I  will  do  what  I  like.  But  there 
is  something  t-he  matter  with  me.  I  want  to  lie  down. 
I  cannot  keep  my  eyes  open. 

ECRASIA.  You  are  fallng  asleep.  You  will  wake  up 
again. 

THE  NEWLY  BORN  [drowsUyl  What  is  sle^p? 

Acis.  Ask  no  questions ;  and  you  will  be  told  no  lies. 
l^He  takes  her  hy  the  ear,  and  leads  her  firmly  towards 
the  temple^, 

THE  NEWLY  BORN.  Ai !  oi !  ai !  Dont.  I  want  to  be 
carried  [She  reels  into  the  arins  of  Acis,  who  carries  her 
into  the  temple], 

ECRASIA.  Come,  Arjillax:  you  at  least  are  still  an 
artist.     I  adore  you. 

ARJILLAX.  Do  you?  Unfortunately  for  you,  I  am 
not  still  a  dhild.  I  have  grown  out  of  cuddling.  I  can 
only  appreciate  your  figure.     Does  that  satisfy  you  ? 

ECRASIA.     At  what  distance? 

ARJILLAX.     Arm's  length  or  more, 

ECRASIA.  Thank  you :  not  for  me.  [She  turns  away 
from  him]. 

ARJILLAX.     Ha!  ha!  [He  strides  off  into  the  temple], 

ECRASIA  [calling  to  Strephon,  who  is  on  the  threshold 
of  the  temple,  going  in]  Strephon. 

STREPHON.  No.  My  heart  is  broken.  [He  goes  in- 
to the  temple], 

ECRASIA.  Must  I  pass  the  night  alone?  [She  looks 
round,  seeking  another  partner;  hut  they  have  all  gone]. 


Part  V      As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach        297 

After  all,  I  oan  imagine  a  lover  nobler  than  any  of  you. 
[She  goes  into  the  temple^ , 

It  is  now  quite  dark,  A  vague  radiance  appears  near 
the  temple  and  shapes  itself  into  the  ghost  of  Adam, 

A  woman's  voice  [in  the  grovel  Who  is  that? 

ADAM.  The  ghost  of  Adam,  the  first  father  of  man- 
kind.    Who  are  you? 

THE  VOICE.  The  ghost  of  Eve,  the  first  mother  of 
mankind. 

ADAM,     Come  forth,  wife ;  and  shew  yourself  to  me 

EVE  [appearing  near  the  grove~\  Here  I  am,  husband. 
You  are  very  old. 

A  VOICE  [in  the  hills^  Ha !  ha !  ha ! 

ADAM.     Who  laughs?     Who  dares  laugh  at  Adam? 

EVE.     Who  has  the  heart  to  laugh  at  Eve  ? 

THE  VOICE.  The  ghost  of  Cain,  the  first  child,  and 
the  first  murderer.  [He  appears  between  them;  and  as 
he  does  so  there  is  a  prolonged  hiss].  Who  dares  hiss 
at  Cain,  the  lord  of  death? 

A  VOICE.  The  ghost  of  the  serpent,  that  lived  before 
Adam  and  before  Eve,  and  taught  them  how  to  bring 
forth  Cain,      [She  becomes  visible,  coiled  in  the  tree] . 

A  VOICE.     There  is  one  that  came  before  the  serpent. 

THE  SERPENT.  That  is  the  voice  of  Lilith,  in  whom 
the  father  and  mother  were  one.     Hail,  Lilith ! 

Lilith  becomes  visible  between  Cain  and  Adam, 

LILITH.  I  suffered  unspeakably ;  I  tore  myself  asun- 
der ;  I  lost  my  life,  to  make  of  my  one  flesh  these  twain, 
man  and  woman.  And  this  is  what  has  come  of  it. 
What  do  you  make  of  it,  Adam,  my  son  ? 

ADAM.  I  made  the  earth  bring  forth  by  my  labor, 
and  the  woman  bring  forth  by  my  love.  And  this  is 
what  has  come  of  it.  What  do  you  make  of  it.  Eve,  my 
wife  ? 

EVE.     I  nourished  the  egg  in  my  body  and  fed  it  with 


298        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach      Part  V 

my  blood.  And  now  they  let  it  fall  as  the  birds  did,  and 
suffer  not  at  all.  What  do  jou  make  of  it,  Cain,  my 
first->bom  ? 

CAIN.  I  invented  killing  and  conquest  and  mastery 
and  the  winnowing  out  of  the  weak  by  the  strong.  And 
ROW  the  strong  have  slain  one  another ;  and  the  weak  live 
for  ever;  and  their  deeds  do  nothing  for  the  doer  more 
than  for  another.     What  do  you  make  of  it,  snake? 

THE  SERPENT.  I  am  justified.  For  I  chose  wisdom 
and  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil ;  and  now  there  is  no 
evil ;  and  wisdom  and  good  are  one.  It  is  enough.  [She 
'canishes~\ . 

CAIN.  There  is  no  place  for  me  on  earth  any  longer. 
You  cannot  deny  that  mine  was  a  splendid  game  while  it 
lasted.  But  now!  Out,  out,  brief  candle!  \_H.e  van- 
ishes'] . 

EVE.  The  clever  ones  were  alwa3^s  my  favorites.  The 
diggers  and  the  fighters  have  dug  themselves  in  with  the 
worms.  My  clever  ones  have  inherited  the  earth.  All's 
well.      [^She  fades  away'], 

ADAM.  I  can  make  nothing  of  it,  neither  head  nor 
tail.  What  is  it  all  for?  Why?  Whither?  Whence? 
We  were  well  enough  in  the  garden.  And  now  the  fools 
have  killed  all  the  animals;  and  they  are  dissatisfied 
because  they  cannot  be  bothered  with  their  bodies !  Fool- 
ishness, I  call  it.      [He  disappears], 

LiLiTH.  They  have  accepted  the  burden  of  eternal 
life.  They  have  taken  the  agony  from  birth ;  and  their 
life  does  not  fail  them  even  in  the  hour  of  their  destruc- 
tion. Their  breasts  are  wivhout  milk:  their  bowels  are 
gone:  the  very  shapes  of  them  are  only  ornaments  for 
their  children  to  admire  and  caress  without  understand- 
ing. Is  this  enough;  or  shall  I  labor  again?  Shall  I 
bring  forth  something  that  will  sweep  them  away  and 
make  an  end  of  them  as  they  have  swept  away  the  beasts 


Part  V      As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach        299 

of  the  garden,  and  make  an  end  of  the  crawlingj  things 
and  the  flying  things  and  of  all  them  that  refuse  to  Uve 
for  ever?  I  had  patience  with  them  for  many  ages  *  they 
tried  me  very  sorely.  They  did  terrible  things  •  they 
embraced  death,  and  said  that  eternal  life  was  a  fable. 
I  stood  amazed  at  the  malice  and  destructiveness  of  the 
things  I  had  made:  Mars  blushed  as  he  looked  down  on 
the  shame  of  his  sister  planet :  cruelty  and  hypocrisy  be- 
came so  hideous  that  the  face  of  the  earth  was  pitted 
with  the  graves  of  little  children  among  which  living 
skeletons  crawled  in  search  of  horrible  food.  The  pangs 
of  another  birth  were  already  upon  me  when  one  man 
repented  and  lived  three  hundred  years ;  and  I  waited  to 
see  what  would  come  of  that.  And  so  much  came  of  it 
that  the  horrors  of  that  time  seem  now  but  an  evil  dream. 
The}^  have  redeemed  themselves  from  their  vileness,  and 
turned  away  from  their  sins.  Best  of  all,  they  are  still 
not  satisfied:  the  impulse  I  gave  them  in  that  day  when 
I  sundered  myself  in  twain  and  launched  Man  and 
Woman  on  the  earth  still  urges  them:  after  passing  a 
million  goals  they  press  on  to  the  goal  of  redemption 
from  the  flesh,  to  the  vortex  freed  from  matter,  to  the 
whirlpool  In  pure  intelligence  that,  when  the  world 
began,  was  a  whirlpool  in  pure  force.  And  though  all 
that  they  have  done  seems  but  the  first  hour  of  the  infinite 
work  of  creation,  yet  I  will  not  supersede  them  until 
they  have  forded  this  last  stream  that  lies  between  flesh 
and  spirit,  and  disentangled  their  life  from  the  matter 
that  has  always  mocked  it.  I  can  wait:  waiting  and 
patience  mean  nothing  to  the  eternal.  I  gave  the 
woman  the  greatest  of  gifts:  curiosity.  By  that  her 
seed  has  been  saved  from  my  wrath ;  for  I  also  am  curi- 
ous ;  and  I  have  waited  always  to  see  what  they  will  do 
tomorrow.  Let  them  feed  that  appetite  well  for  me.  I 
say,  let  them  dread,  of  all  things,  stagnation ;  for  from 


300        As  Far  As  Thought  Can  Reach      Part  V 

the  moment  I,  Lilith,  lose  hope  and  faith  in  them,  they 
are  doomed.  In  that  hope  and  faith  I  have  let  them  live 
for  a  moment ;  and  in  that  moment  I  have  spared  them 
many  times.  But  mightier  creatures  than  they  have 
killed  hope  and  faith,  and  perished  from  the  earth;  and 
I  may  not  spare  them  for  ever.  I  am  Lilith :  I  brought 
life  into  the  whirlpool  of  force,  and  compelled  my  enemy, 
Matter,  to  obey  a  living  soul.  But  in  enslaving  Life's 
enemy  I  made  Life's  master;  for  that  is  the  end  of  all 
slavery;  and  now  I  shall  see  the  slave  set  free  and  the 
enemy  reconciled,  the  whirlpool  become  all  life  and  no 
matter.  And  because  these  infants  that  call  themselves 
ancients  are  reaching  out  towards  that,  I  will  have 
patience  with  them  still ;  though  I  know  well  that  when 
they  attain  it  they  shall  become  one  with  me  and  super- 
sede me,  and  Lilith  will  be  only  a  legend  and  a  lay  that 
has  lost  its  meaning.  Of  Life  only  is  there  no  end ;  and 
though  of  its  million  starry  mansions  many  are  empty 
and  many  still  unbuilt,  and  though  its  vast  domain  is  as 
yet  unbearably  desert,  my  seed  shall  one  day  fill  it  and 
master  its  matter  to  its  uttermost  confines.  And  for 
what  may  be  beyond,  the  eyesight  of  Lilith  is  too  short. 
It  is  enough  that  there  is  a  beyond,     [^She  vanishes]. 


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